


And We’ll Sit in a World of Truth

by doctorestranged



Series: Dead Men Walking [3]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: 90s references, Adorable Peter Parker, Age Difference, All Warnings From Previous Parts Apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Antisemitism, Awkwardness, BAMF Wade Wilson, Bad Dirty Talk, Bad Romance, Blink and You Missed It Sexual Identity Contemplation, Breathplay, Cancer, Character Development, Character Study, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Discrimination, Dom/sub Undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Featuring Wade as Spotify Playlist "Early 2000s hits", Fluff and Angst, Hella Old School References, Homophobic Language, Infantilism, Just accept the nice things Peter jfc, M/M, Mercenary Culture, None of the main characters engage in this discrimination, OOC, Oh Weasel, Oral Sex, Peter is a brat, Peter is a mess, Peter is awkward, Peter is exploring his sexuality, Peter's POV, Plot, Poor Peter, Pop Cult References, Possessiveness, Precious Peter Parker, Protectiveness, Racist Language, Repetitive thinking related to, Semi-Public Sex, Service Kink, Sick Character, Sponsored by Starbucks, Stereotypical Characters, Story now known as the saga of Wade and Peter on a journey of who knows what, Symbiote - Freeform, The kink is there, This work is complete but will be posted in 4 chapters, Violence, Wade is Functional, Wade is a Brat Tamer, Wade is an Adult, Wade is an environmentalist, Wade is helping, Wade is soft, Wade's still trying to be Peter's sugar daddy, Weird Humor, Whoaaaaaa Caught in a, You just have to be intune with it, and possession? Um. Pass., anxiety and depression, blink and you miss it - Freeform, just kidding, light humiliation kink, mild depression, peter is a baby, venom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 95,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorestranged/pseuds/doctorestranged
Summary: Peter attempts to get ahold of himself in the face of his recent episode of amnesia. He, Wade, and Weasel piece together the bits and bobs of loose ends that are seemingly unrelated. Meanwhile, Peter struggles to become a better person for Aunt May and Wade. He's finally succeeding in taking the first steps towards achieving the relationships he wants in his life. It's no surprise that when things are going well, they're suddenly not.(Note: Author recommends you read Part 1 and 2 before reading this or you shall be so lost. This picks up directly after Part 2.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. Sorry for the wait! I had to write this in between my semester work. Blah. Happy 2019. I hope you passed the new year with a smile. A big thanks to everyone who is a returning reader. And welcome to the newbies! I hope you enjoy this next installment. I know we have some binge readers who will pop in when all 4 chapters are posted. Please, remember to sleep at a reasonable time and drink water LOL! Word count is 94K. I suggest you read it in chunks for the health of your brain.
> 
> Please, read all of the warnings and tags. Most are babbling, but there are a few trigger ones (cancer, discrimination and offensive slurs/speech, certain sexual kinks). Note: I have not given warnings as to when sex scenes occur in these fics. But I know you will be able to use context clues to figure it out XD. If you should skip them for your sanity, then you won't miss too many significant plot details, but you will likely miss undertones of the Peter/Wade developing relationship and personalities. You'll still be fine.
> 
> Familiarize yourself with previous warnings, if needed. Last note, if you haven't read this series in a while, you might want to skim old parts as many details will pop up here.
> 
>  
> 
> My superbeta is Pineau_noir. This literally would not be readable without her. As usual.

** And We’ll Sit in a World of Truth **

Part 3 of _Dead Men Walking_

 

“I had to break up this telenovela, but a little direction would be appreciated.”

Wade looks up sharply at the jarring sound of Weasel’s voice. Peter’s not sure how much time has passed, but Wade’s been crouched over him whispering a soundtrack of utter nonsense to the theatrics of Peter’s hyperventilation. It’s been long enough that Peter’s calmed down.

Marginally.

He still feels like he’s buzzing; the atoms of his being vibrating out of sync with each other. Peter feels like he’s one wrong breath away from his body phasing out of existence. He just can’t seem to wrap his head around what they saw on the video. Or his recovered memory from Stark Tower. Why hadn’t Peter recalled any of this before now? Had he suffered some sort of injury-related amnesia? And what sort of _injury_ was that?

“I’m sorry, the last time I checked my name wasn’t Siri,” Wade spits, his patience with Weasel startlingly short in comparison to his patience for Peter. “Where would you like to go, fucktard?”

Weasel stands with his hip pressed to the tabletop and his arms crossed over his chest, seemingly unaffected by Peter’s franticness, yet wary of Wade’s posturing. Weasel glances briefly at Peter, taking in his fast breaths with a sigh of exasperation. Then, his face settles into a mild frown of familiar irritation. Weasel looks at Wade like one would look at a lost dingo: like he’s mildly endearing, but mostly a pest liable to start biting at any moment. Or piss everywhere if he’s left unchecked.

Weasel takes a calculated step backward from where Wade is encroaching on him unconsciously.

“Wade,” he says slowly, “The video footage,” Weasel gestures to the three lined up laptops and raises his eyebrows in question. “What would you like to do with it, dear client-o-mine?”

Wade stands to his full height and points a rough finger at the middle laptop. “I want you to delete the fuck out of it. Is this the Stupid Question game?”

Weasel’s eyes look to the ceiling, sending a quick prayer for the gift of forbearance.

“I want you to make it like the Mayan civilization: disappeared at the hands of a white man. Run it through the interwebs Bermuda Triangle and let it get sharted into some other digital universe. Open up a can of _*NSYNC’_ s ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ on it. Make it gone, unreachable, like _2 Girls 1 Cup_ on a public library Google search,” Wade rants with his hands waving in the air agitatedly.

Weasel just turns to Peter. “Mouse?”

Peter, still sitting heavily in the kitchen chair, burrowed into his green jacket with a hand clutching Esther’s photograph, flicks his eyes up to meet Weasel’s.

They’d all gone into this little mission with different objectives, hadn’t they? Wade wants the footage deleted to protect Peter’s identity. Peter wants to rummage through it for admissible court evidence for a lawsuit against _Kindika_ —something, anything to show who’s culpable for the murder of almost ten children. And Weasel, ever so dedicated to his business, went into this with the goal of granting a wish in return for an undetermined favor.

But the fervency of Wade’s proclamation to delete the footage sends Peter back to a conversation he’s already had with himself.

“What’s the point in deleting it?” he says feeling hopeless with concrete realization.

Wade squawks in confusion, but Weasel regards Peter coolly. The man shakes his blonde hair out of his face and prompts Peter to continue with a pointed look.

“What’s the point? Why delete it? They’ve had it on their cloud this entire time. What’s the likelihood that someone hasn’t seen it? Isn’t it a slim chance?”

“Slimmer than anorexic Lindsay [Lohan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYiha-00GGI),” Weasel replies.

“Fuck,” Wade chimes in with frustration. “You’re right. Top secret facility, kidnapped patients. High tech all up the wazoo. Ain’t no way these tossers didn’t keep an eye on the proceedings. If there’s one thing that’s monitored in this world, it’s cash money. And that place was a money pit if it wasn’t operating business as expected.”

Wade is completely right. Peter’s said it before and he’ll remind himself again: these are a different class of criminals. They weren’t just shooting guns in the middle of a bank looking for a penny. They were operating within the law, even if that law was made by themselves. Who has the power to build their own commandments? Money talks, ethics walk.

But Peter’s not looking at Wade. He’s looking at Weasel, who stares right back with an aura of expectancy. Weasel’s eyes are always at odds with his body language and dialogue. He looks greasy like he’s eaten one too many _Hot Pockets_. More likely to fix your broadband modem than to work in the murder business. Right now, he’s standing casually as though he’s waiting for a beer. His words are airy, but he looks at Peter like he’s an experiment.

Peter’s not sure what it means. He can’t think about it right now, though. His brain is already full to the brim.

“Generator malfunction,” Weasel says thoughtfully. “Quaint story.”

Peter nods, swallowing dryly. “If there was a generator malfunction, these people would have known.”

“There were enough precautions that a defect would have been noticed right away,” Wade says frowning. “If they believed that, they would have gone through the security footage to prove their claim to an insurance company to get their funds back.”

Weasel’s still looking at Peter. “Pink elephant in the room, Mouse?”

“And if they didn’t believe it? Then, they looked anyway,” Peter runs his fingers through his sweaty hair. “There’s no point in deleting the footage because they’ve already seen it. The question isn’t what we should do with the footage. It’s why haven’t they done anything after seeing the footage?”

“That’s the golden ticket, Mouse,” Weasel nods approvingly then drops into a seat, pulls the middle laptop to him, and begins typing furiously.

“Maybe they don’t know who to put a target on?” Wade asks, eying the window on the other side of the room. It’s an empty question. He knows _Kindika_ could find Deadpool in a heartbeat. Less powerful people have. It’s Peter’s identity that is a secret. And with his face staring point blank into one of their security cameras, his secret identity must no longer be a secret. It’s not like Peter doesn’t have any public records. He went to high school, he had a legal job, he had the Stark internship—even though it had been a farce. Each of those things offered photographic proof of his identity. With a little digging, _Kindika_ could find him.

Hell, if Wade or Weasel wanted to, they could find Peter right now. All it takes is someone willing to lift a finger and engage in a search.

Peter’s not very well disguised. It’s actually horrifically sad. Why isn’t Peter better disguised? Why is his identity so accessible when he performs such a sensitive job?

Probably because he’s supposed to keep his damn suit on when he’s _active_. Mr. Stark would never forgive him if he knew Peter went in sans suit. What a rookie mistake. It was more than embarrassing. Peter can’t tell him, he would lose all of Mr. Stark’s respect and confidence. What little he has, that is. He could see Mr. Stark taking his suit away for good this time. And Peter would have to allow him without complaint because he knows how reckless he’s been, despite Mr. Stark’s direction. 

Peter can’t let that happen. Spider-Man is Peter’s life. Everything he’s done since being bitten was for Spider-Man. He’s spent his life investing in Spider-Man. He’s sacrificed too much.

No one answers Wade because they don’t have to. They’re all thinking pretty much the same thing. _Kindika_ has them caught, they just haven’t pinned them down. Why?

Just why? Why not punish them? Make them suffer for their crimes? Do they simply not believe in justice? Peter doesn’t believe that. Bad guys tend to have tilted moral compasses. They’ll commit all the sin in the world, but as soon as a wrong is committed against them, there’s a price to be paid.

These people have to be bloodthirsty. They just have to be waiting to get Peter and Deadpool in the right place at the right time. But why is it worth it to bide their time? Why be the sit-and-wait predator rather than the active one?

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, surprised at how quickly Weasel’s attention shifted. He hasn’t looked at either of them since dropping in front of the laptop. A command prompt is open next to a window showing the footage.

“I’m getting rid of the footage,” Weasel says primly.

“Why?” Peter demands, shrugging in incredulity, “I thought we said there’s no point. _Kindika_ ’s seen everything.”

“Their house of cards isn’t made of weebles, Mouse, take notes. It’s made of data. And just ask any statistician; you can make the data say whatever you want it to. That is, as long as you have all of the data. I’m deleting the footage of all of your close-ups. I’ll loop it whenever I need to account for a gap. It’ll be obvious that someone’s been rooting around, but...” Weasel shrugs like its explainable.

“But why?” Peter asks, frustrated. Why, why, why? It’s the only question on his mind and it applies to everything. He feels so lost right now.

As if on instinct, he pulls a hand out of his pocket and reaches up blindly to grab Wade. The man’s attention finally pulls from the window and returns to Peter. He grips Peter’s hand, thrumming with a reassurance that has no place in this situation.

“The cloud is their back up,” Wade murmurs, looking over Peter. Looking for what, Peter couldn’t say. “We’ll get rid of the files to make sure they can’t access them here again.”

“Who’s to say this cloud copy is their only backup? What if they have another cache memory that holds all of their files for cases just like this when their footage is interfered with?” Peter questions adamantly. These people are smart. It had taken an arm and a leg to find them in the first place. Peter knows because they were found not by him or Wade or Weasel, but by Mr. Stark. If it took a genius to sniff them out, then they can all be assured it’ll take a genius to snuff them out.

Peter knows there are no geniuses in the room. Even if they are reasonably intelligent people, they’re no Mr. Stark.

“We don’t know, Mouse,” Weasel replies, face pressed to the screen in concentration. “But it’s good to cover all bases. That’s how you succeed in this business.”

“Tie all the ends before they get lose,” Wade nods, “You never know which ones will fray.”

“And you never know which ones could buy you time,” Weasel finishes. “Do it now, so you don’t have to try later.”

“Do or do not, there is no try,” Wade says in a booming voice.

“Right on, Yoda!” Weasel barks, “You two, get gone. I’m about to break into their tertiary firewall to start some old-fashion vid snipping.”

“We are ever so grateful you perfected the technique using Vine.”

"Rest in peace, Vine," Peter whispers to no one in particular as he lets a snorting Wade pull him to his feet.

“Before I forget,” Weasel looks over his shoulder, taps a few keys, then pulls out a USB from one of the laptop ports. He hands it to Peter.

“What’s this?”

“Your copy, of course,” Weasel sighs, frowning at Peter. “Everyone wants a copy of their first reality TV debut.” With that, he turns to the computer again, hand reaching under the table to pluck up his _Red Bull._ “I can hear the call of duty. Time to party like a [rockstar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82vpIsQ3lX8).”

“Totally, dude,” Wade snorts, herding Peter out of the apartment.

Peter clutches the USB in his palm.

“Go be Brokeback Mutants somewhere else.”

Well, one good thing that’s come from this is that Weasel’s stopped dancing around the fact that he knows Peter’s a mutant of some variation.

On second thought, that might not be such a good thing.

They’re halfway down the stairs when Peter stops, making Wade run right into his back. The man’s weight presses into him, nearly at full force. It’s Peter’s brute strength that keeps them standing. Turning, he presses a hand to a confused Wade’s chest, stabilizing him and then pushing him aside.

“Just give me a moment,” he gets out as he jogs up the stairs and back into the apartment without knocking.

Weasel’s still at the laptop. “I know I’m a wizard, but I’m not done yet, Mouse.”

Peter hesitates at the door frame unwilling to come in further. He doesn’t like Weasel’s abode very much. It reeks of him: beer, marijuana, and grape soda. Not that he’s been paying attention to Weasel’s musk, but the stench hits him abruptly and makes his stomach churn. Every time he walks in here, he feels like he’s entering the den of a Komodo dragon.

“It was a research facility,” he begins, unnecessarily. Weasel’s already caught up. Peter doesn’t do it to explain, though, he’s just trying to gather his words. Trying to not sound like an idiot or worse: someone who’s asking for a favor. It’s enough that Wade’s indebted to Weasel. Peter does not need to get in on this action. “Could you access their archives?”

“You mean their research data?” Weasel corrects, still not looking at Peter. Whatever’s on the screen is more important.

“Yeah,” Peter nods even though he isn’t seen. “ _Kindika_ ’s research. Whatever they were working on. Anything they recorded.”

“What makes you think it was recorded online?”

Peter pauses, his head tilting and nose wrinkling in thought. Everyone did everything online nowadays, didn’t they? That’s what Weasel said when they were at Starbucks. _Kindika_ ’s clinic had online records. Of course, this one did too. They had security cameras fueled with Wi-Fi and stored on a cloud, so why would online records be a stretch?

With a sudden shiver, Peter blinks as a hazy image passes through his eyes of a security camera with a blinking red light stares down at him.

Always being watched. How annoying.

 _Observation cameras engaged._ “When we were in there, a research trial was about to start. An automated announcer said there were observation cameras. Couldn’t have been the security cameras,” Peter says, eyes unseeing into the air in front of him, feeling strange.

“Did that pearl just come to mind now?” Weasel finally turns to give him a quick surveying look.

After a charged moment of staring, Peter shrugs.

Weasel turns back to the computer, typing, and cursing. “I’ll look into it.”

It sounds like the end of their conversation, but Peter can’t help but stand by the door waiting for another bomb to fall. When he can’t take it anymore, he speaks, “What’s the catch?”

Weasel throws Peter a sharp smile. “For you?” he simpers. “No charge. Consider it extra repayment for dealing with problem clients. You’re just full of promise, ain’t you?”

Peter blinks at that. God, Weasel must have really hated that guy who wanted his Dali back. Peter can totally understand though because the man had sounded obnoxious on the phone.

Feeling unsure, but knowing he won’t get anything else, Peter makes a move toward the stairs again.

“Not _Kindika_ ,” Weasel shouts from behind him.

Peter jumps and pokes his head through the door again. Weasel still doesn’t spare him a glance, now typing even faster than before.

“You keep calling them _Kindika._ They’re not _Kindika._ _Kindika_ was the name of the psychiatric practice that ‘referred’ patients with latent mutant genes to your current Undesirable, number [one](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Undesirable).”

Peter bites down on his tongue. Weasel is already caught up. Peter keeps making the mistake of thinking Weasel is sitting on the sidelines with a blindfold. How wrong of him. Peter needs to stop taking Weasel at face value. Why does he keep making that slip up? Peter’s the one that needs to catch up.

“The _Life Foundation._ ”

Peter starts to nod, but then Wade is at his back, running warm hands down his arms. Peter stops his nod to soak in the affection, letting it soothe him. Warmth proliferating, branching and penetrating. A good feeling. Comfort and safety.

“Just his clips, Weas,” Wade says over Peter’s head, voice stern.

Weasel just sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s what I said, didn’t I? Give me some credit, I know you well enough. You’re as serious as a heart attack nowadays, you know that, Wilson? Lost your humor in your old age, soon you’ll be yelling at whippersnappers to get off your lawn.”

“I don’t believe in lawns. They’re deserts of grass with little to no ecological function brought to the new world by a bunch of pilgrims who wanted to pretend they were wealthy enough not to have to grow food on their land.”

Peter cracks his eyes open to peek up at Wade. Despite the cavalier and off-topic words, the man continues to regard Weasel firmly. Weasel still doesn’t look away from the laptop, but he sighs again like he can see Wade perfectly.

“Fuck. I get it, it’s rare to be bitten so often by the lovebug. You’re one lucky bastard, Wilson,” Weasel coughs out, before lowering his voice to a whisper that’s certainly not meant to be overheard. “At least, this time ‘round, I hope you’re fucking lucky. You’re not bouncing back if another one bites the dust.”

Peter hears it anyway.

“Now how many times do I need to ask nicely? Get the fuck out or I’m going to start charging you two rent.”

-

On the hike down the stairs, Peter pulls out his phone and presses the button. The screen remains black, still dead. He should charge it. He wonders how Aunt May is doing.

Is she painting today?

Is she in pain? How does cancer feel? Is it similar to the same pain Peter felt when he was on the floor of Stark Tower, twitching back and forth like he was being pumped with a trillion volts of electricity? A pain so wretched and deep it feels molecular?

A hand running through his hair pulls Peter from sinking into darkness.

Peter looks up at Wade’s thoughtful face. He’s biting the inside of one of his cheeks, eyes bright and focused on Peter. Wade’s got quite an omniscient gaze for someone whose secret talent is drawing chibis.

The pads of Wade’s fingers dig blissfully into Peter’s scalp, making him hum in approval.

“You wanna go shopping?” Wade asks, apropos of nothing. He throws Peter a beguiling smile, tugging spiritedly at a tuft of Peter’s hair.

“Huh?”

“Shopping,” Wade enunciates slowly. “An activity in which you trade your hard-earned dough for pretty things that aren’t worth the amount you pay.”

Peter blinks.

“And by your money, I mean _my_ money,” Wade continues, wiggling his nonexistent eyebrows enticingly. “An activity in which you spend my money in exchange for pretty things for pretty you.”

Peter winces, looking up at Wade strictly. “Wade, I don’t want to spend your money.”

“Fair enough,” Wade nods enthusiastically and tries again undeterred. “An activity in which I spend my bucks on pretty things for pretty you.”

Crossing his arms, Peter huffs and stands taller. Not that it does much. “I don’t need you to buy me things, Wade. I have things. I’d rather you saved your money.”

“But I could treat ya so special, so nice. Stacks on deck, [Patrón on ice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQJACVmankY). Baby, you can have whatever you like.”

Wade’s pout is amusing, but Peter doesn’t let himself crack a smile. He’s serious. He doesn’t want Wade’s money. Peter knows he lets a lot slip—he’s human (pretty much), okay? He lets Wade shower him with food and sure, he crashes too much at Wade’s place, taking advantage of his heavenly bathroom and mattress. Okay, perhaps, he spends a bit too much time luxuriating on that red sofa. But he doesn’t need Wade to push the envelope and buy him trinkets. He doesn’t need any more tokens of his affection.

Wade’s actions are enough.

“You drive a hard bargain, Bambi. Instant replay,” Wade says under his breath. Tugging on Peter’s hair again, Wade clears his throat. “I want to go shopping. Come with me because I hate going alone.”

Peter appreciates his resilience, though he is skeptical of it. This definitely is a plan for Wade trying to distract him from all that’s going on today. But Peter’s not sure he wants the distraction. His head aches with a migraine from all of it; he could use a break. Just a little break from reality—he wants one so badly. He’s just not sure if he deserves it.

“And why do you want to go shopping?”

Wade volleys his weight from one foot to the other indecisively like an overgrown kid. “I need some new things?”

Peter narrows his eyes, looking up at him with scrutiny. “Like what?” It’s not that Wade’s not allowed to want things. Peter’s just not sure how he could want for anything material. Peter considers his threadbare studio to Wade’s lavish condo. With a home like that, what else could Wade need? It’s not like Wade’s addicted to Louis Vuitton. He wears sweatpants like he’s setting his own era of fashion.

Wade shrugs. “I need a new countertop,” he says with his shoulders and brows pinched.

Peter drops his arms, mind flashing back to this morning when he noticed the broken granite. He frowns in confusion.

“You do,” he agrees. “Why is your countertop broken?” When Peter looks to Wade for an explanation, he’s surprised that Wade’s just standing there staring back at him. He doesn’t look sheepish. If Peter’s honest, he rather thought that Wade might have gotten a bit weapon-happy with a new stick of dynamite or katana or something. That’s what Peter’s unimaginative mind conjures up.

But Wade just shrugs absently again. His hand moves from Peter’s hair to trace over his cheekbone and cup his chin.

He lets a grin shine on down on Peter. It’s disarming in its brilliance. God, his smiles send Peter floating.

“I get a little too enthusiastic sometimes, sweetheart,” Wade smiles down at him, tilting Peter’s head up a little more. “You know these guns are hard to control.”

Peter looks at him in disbelief, ignoring the way Wade strikes a quick pose to show off his muscular arms. “What does that mean?”

“You know how it is, Bambi. It was a hard day’s night. I was working like a dog. Long day at work, even longer night, listening to Weas drone on. Can’t exactly throw myself on _Jerry Springer_. Gotta take my anger out on something, all healthy like,” Wade explains.

“So, you took your frustration out on your granite countertop?” Peter repeats doubtfully.

Why does that sound so shady?

Peter doesn’t actually recall Wade ever lying to him; except for his few misplaced reassurances, which all came from an origin of good intentions. If asked in the past, Peter might have dubbed Wade such a skilled liar that Peter could never pick it up, even with the ability to monitor his heartbeat by listening closely enough. Being a merc means that one probably has to be a good liar. For manipulation purposes and the like. Maybe.

But when faced with _this_ , Peter isn’t so sure. Peter knows he still takes the title for “World’s Worst Liar”. Wade doesn’t exhibit even one of Peter’s tells: no unsteady voice, no shifty eyes, no blushing. There’s no nose wrinkle or whatever it is that Wade insists gives him away. He looks nothing like Peter must look on the regular; pathetic and trying to convince him and Weasel of false tidbits from his life story. Yet, Peter can’t help but feel a little poke in the back of his head telling him that Wade isn’t being honest.

Peter doesn’t understand.

What could Wade have to gain by lying to him about his countertop? It can’t be a damning story.

“Well,” Wade murmurs, eyes half-lidded and licking his lips. “I could easily be persuaded to relieve my stress with alternative activities.”

With that, he leans down to brush his lips against Peter’s. At the feather-light touch, Peter feels his eyes flutter shut on cue, lips moving independently to meet Wade’s in a kiss. Wade groans at his response, the tender hand on Peter’s chin dropping to massage the stiff muscles in between Peter’s shoulders.

Peter lets himself sigh into the kiss for a moment more before raises his hands to frame Wade’s face.

He pulls back reluctantly.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Wade as a vision before him. His expression is one of arousal. He looks at Peter like he can’t quite believe Peter’s standing here with him, in the grimy landing of _Sister Margaret’s_ between the bar and the stairs to Weasel’s apartment. Peter understands the sentiment. Never once in a million years did Peter ever imagine he’d have something akin to this.

He breaks the moment unwillingly. “Are you lying to me?” Peter whispers, feeling a broken stab of paranoia in his gut, threatening his fragile state of being.

Wade’s lust tames itself, but he doesn’t stop looking down at Peter heatedly. His free hand comes up to touch Peter’s cheek again as though he can’t stop touching him. Like his hands are magnetically pulled to Peter’s skin, fingers tracing it over and over again to assure himself that Peter’s real. Like he needs confirmation that Peter is solid and living, not a fading figment of his fleeting imagination.

“Things just got emotional, baby boy,” Wade tells him sincerely. “Now’s not the time to talk about it.”

He doesn’t say it, but Peter can see him asking Peter to trust him. Though his curiosity burns, Peter swallows and nods, relenting. His nod compels Wade to gift him with a kiss to the forehead.

It sends shivers down his spine. He loves those forehead kisses.

“So how do people get countertops?” he asks. He’d be honored to go shopping with Wade. Peter knows they haven’t gone out much together. They haven’t really done much together except have sleepovers and go to _Sister Margaret’s._ Peter wants to do normal couple stuff, even if nothing about them is normal. Normal couples don’t break into buildings together, save children, then kill everyone else standing. 

He likes it when Wade cooks for him and when they wake up entangled. It feels like they’re just another couple, enjoying each other's company. Peter cherishes their time together. He just wishes it could be less centered on Peter’s drama. It would be fun to go out with Wade and make a memory free from the influence of all of Peter’s issues. Like, dating.

Peter wants to go on a date.

A shopping date.

Not something he’d ever thought he’d say and definitely, not in the company of someone his teenage-self would have pictured for such an activity.

“Is there a counter store? Like IKEA?” Peter looks up to see Wade biting back a laugh, eyes amused.

“It’s really cute that you think my kitchen is IKEA,” he coos at Peter, slipping his arms around Peter’s waist to pull him close.

“Why do I feel like you’re subtly insulting IKEA?” Peter huffs, offended on behalf of IKEA, despite snuggling closer to Wade. This close, he can feel the vibrations of Wade’s laughter.

“I’m not dissing IKEA, baby,” Wade denies resolutely. “I love cartoons.”

Peter gives him a playful frown. “You’re definitely insulting IKEA.”

“Not one shade is being thrown,” Wade protests with innocence.

“Uh huh,” Peter pokes his chest to let him know that he’s onto him. “Right. No IKEA. No meatballs for you then.”

“I dunno about that,” Wade leans in with a smug smirk. “I’m positive I can have both meat and balls whenever I want.” He looks down at Peter’s crotch approvingly.

“Ugh, shut up,” Peter groans around a laugh, holding his hands to his ears like he can’t bear to hear another word. “Let’s go shopping. To a store that isn’t IKEA then.”

“Yeah, baby, [yeah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2HBdRCroks),” Wade untangles himself from Peter to race to the doorway. “Get in, [loser](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOy1EoX5T0k). We’re going shopping!” he cries ardently.

“You’re not allowed to use that line,” Peter shakes his head, snorting. “It doesn’t work. You don’t even have a car.”

“Yeah well, you don’t even go here,” Wade mumbles, throwing Peter a sassy glance before strutting out of the landing. Absolutely ridiculously.

Peter laughs and follows him out the door.

-

Retail therapy is apparently real.

So are countertop stores.

Peter corrects himself. Countertop stores aren’t a _thing_ , but there are home stores that specialize in kitchenware and they are closer than Peter thought. They’d taken a ride from Dopinder down to a mall that Peter’s never set foot in and into a store with a name that Peter can’t pronounce. It sells everything from cabinets to _Le Creuset_. The latter, Peter learns, are very heavy pots with specialized purposes that come in colorful models. Why? Peter has nary a clue.

Peter’s never been shopping for home accessories. His studio had been furnished and he brought his bedding with him. Aunt May had supplied the curtains and pots that Peter never uses.

He’s bewitched by all of the odds and ends in the store. He stares at everything with interest as Wade urges him forward past a woman dressed in business casual with a Blackberry held to her nose. Peter can’t stop looking all around him at all of the homeware, so Wade’s hand on the small of his back becomes his guide. Slowly but surely, they get to their desired department.

The store attendant seems to know Wade. Peter would be surprised, but a lot of people seem to know Wade. It’s both disconcerting and comforting all at once.

“Which one should we get, huh?” Wade asks, gesturing to all of the samples as the attendant hovers anxiously, seemingly bursting at the seams with readiness to help.

Peter’s never seen so many colors of granite before. He wonders if they dye them or if they are all natural, harvested from exotic places that also have names Peter can’t pronounce.

Then, Peter does a double take. _We_? “You’re asking me?”

Wade looks patiently at Peter. “I trust your input,” is all he says, voice brimming with enjoyment at Peter’s bewildered face.

Peter doesn’t doubt that. But he really doubts that he could have any good input for choosing kitchen accents. Peter can barely choose his clothes in the morning. He blinks up at Wade, adorned in sweats, then peeks quickly at himself in his clean, but fraying jeans and a shirt. Well, neither of them is a poster man for style. It’s very likely that neither of them should be trusted to decorate anything.

Wade snorts like he hears Peter’s thoughts.

Peter shrugs, “Should we just replace it with the same granite as before?”

Wade’s fingers are distractingly trailing along Peter’s spine. “Hell, if I know. We could. Could also ditch the granite and upgrade to marble. Get on my level.”

The store attendant seems effervesced at the idea of Wade spending more money.

Peter hums, looking at the samples critically. Or, well, as critically as he can going off of zero experience in countertop selection. Inside his mind, he feels floaty from their current domestic situation. Wade and Peter choosing house decorations. Is this what mundane couples feel like? It’s surreal, but fun. Peter tries not to let himself be swept away by the tantalizing reverie of an apple pie life with Wade. Marriage, houses, pets, children; all of the things people want in life. All of the things people chase, falling all over themselves to make it happen. It’s silly. When he was younger, Peter had wanted to be like his parents—both of whom he admittedly knows nothing about—and like Aunt May and Uncle Ben. An all-American life.

The dream faded when he’d become Spider-Man. Nothing seemed as important as being a superhero. Peter still feels that’s true. But Wade has a habit of kindling far-fetched desires in Peter.

The attendant looks like he’s about to trip over himself getting the marble samples, but Peter spies a granite square that catches his attention. It’s a dark red color that reminds Peter very much of Deadpool’s suit. It’s aptly flecked with black.

Peter touches it with an index finger.

Wade’s chuckle blows air into Peter’s hair. “Like that color combo, baby boy?”

“I’d like it better if it had some blue in it,” Peter retorts good-humoredly even though Wade can’t understand the reference.

“We’ll take this one,” Wade says and the attendant bursts into action, handing over a clipboard of papers for Wade to initial and sign. The man explains the ordering, delivery, and installment process with carefully constructed professionalism, but Peter doesn’t focus much on him. He’s too busy smiling at the way Wade keeps saying “we”. As though Peter and he are making a decision regarding their home. _Their_ condo _,_ not just Wade’s condo.

It’s so stupid.

Peter’s doing that juvenile thing again where he lets his mind wind romantic caprices. It’s too early to move in with Wade. He’s pretty sure the formula is dating, then proposing, then marrying, _then_ moving in together.

He frowns at himself. Isn’t that a backward way of thinking though? There are modern couples changing it up. Wherever the train of thought would lead him doesn’t matter in the end because Peter loses it as soon as his ears pick up a mumble.

“It can’t fucking be, is that—” the mumble cuts itself off and Peter hears the distinct sound of approaching footsteps. The voice is deep and male. Peter can’t help but think something about it sounds familiar.

Peter’s Spidey sense is just starting to go off when he hears the voice call out. “Hey! Penis Par—”

Even Peter’s impressed with the speed at which he swivels around, turning with a panicked heart to see a familiar face greet him.

“Hi, Flash,” he bites out loudly, successfully cutting off Flash’s salutation.

Flash is taller than the last time Peter saw him at graduation. His voice is deeper. He’s filled out some, just a tad too portly for his frame, but he still carries himself with arrogance. He still has slicked back hair and a cruel set to his face. Once a bully, always a bully. Peter doesn’t see any evidence of reform.

Peter’s heart lurches just seeing him. He hates Flash Thompson. It’s childish of him, but he just can’t help it. Flash reminds him of all the worse bits of high school. When Peter had been regular Peter Parker with glasses and an overbite, Flash had been there to slam him into lockers. After Peter had become Spider-Man and lost his glasses, Flash had been there to continue to slam him into lockers. The one constant in Peter’s life no matter how much he achieved or lost. Always taking the time to knock Peter down a peg or two that he couldn’t spare.

Whether it was for being clumsy or awkward or smarter than him, it hadn’t mattered. Flash had been a relentless tormentor for a young Peter.

As he stands in front of Peter now, both of them all grown up, Peter realizes with freezing shame that he’s never outgrown his fear of Flash. Even now, when Peter could punch him to another coast, Flash still makes him feel small and powerless.

Flash is just standing there, already looking at Peter like he’s comic relief. It makes Peter sweat. He just wants this to be over. Peter’s neck is itchy and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of everything, heart thumping more laboriously.

“H-how are you?” Peter asks kindly because Aunt May raised him with manners. Maybe if he starts this cordially, they can end it cordially and part ways without histrionics.

No such luck.

“I never thought I’d run into you after high school, Parker,” Flash shuffles a _Le Creuset_ box in his arms and starts to smirk. “You just submit an application? I thought I saw a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window when I was parking.”

Peter bits his tongue.

“Sorry to break it to you, Parker, but this is high-end retail. I think they want at least one year of higher education,” Flash taunts with a wolfish grin.

That hurts. Flash always had a sick sixth sense to find Peter’s weak spots and claw at them. Peter hadn’t gone to college—the lack of university by his name in the Midtown newsletter had been enough proof. Every classmate of his knows. Peter had been the only one to not go to college, not counting two classmates that had enlisted in the military. It had been embarrassing during their graduation ceremony and it’s still embarrassing now.

What good is it that Peter always met Flash’s intelligence head on if he never did anything with his smarts? He’s never applied himself. Flash comes from a wealthy family, in the same social circle of Liz’s family when the Vulture had been king. Flash had his pick of any university. Bills were never an issue for him.

Peter cringes. He feels anger starting to bubble inside of him, but he tries to keep his cool. He has to. He’s in public.

“No,” he replies, giving a curt nod to Flash. “No, I’m just, um,” he shrugs, “here shopping.”

Flash’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “Shopping? Wow, Parker, me too!” Flash’s fake sincerity is worse than his outright mocking. “I needed some pots,” he shakes the box demonstratively. “Just got me a place in Tribeca. Figured it was about time since I’m finishing my degree in toxicology. I’ll be moving on to pharmacy school soon, so I thought it was a good time for property investment. What about you, Parker? Are you still living with your Aunt in Queens?” Flash asks it with a cruel undertone. “Heard Queens is now considered an up and coming neighborhood. Lucky for you two, then.”

Like Peter should be embarrassed that he lives in Queens. He’s not. Queens is _his_ neighborhood and he’s the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Queens is where he grew up. He’s not ashamed of his life there.

But that doesn’t stop him from feeling a flush overtake him. Flash just works him up. Peter’s dreading this conversation. He doesn’t want to respond. He just wants to walk away before Flash finds some small space to kick him into.

He’s just about to fumble his way through another response when he feels Wade step up behind him. Wade must be finished filling in the paperwork for the countertop.

He feels immensely gratified by the way Flash’s eyes jerk up and go wide.

Wade’s a terrifying sight for some people; Peter often forgets it. To him, Wade is just Wade. He’s the handsome, goofy, and morally ambiguous guy that Peter’s head over heels for. But to other people? Wade’s bulk and height must be intimidating. His scars too, Peter muses. To people who aren’t aware of their origins, they must be alarming.

“Who’s your friend, Peter?” Wade rumbles out, voice just a hair deeper than it usually is. Peter shivers as it reverberates between them. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

He hadn’t been planning to. Peter had been keen on leaving, actually. But Wade steps forward, even closer, and presses himself just slightly against Peter.

Peter bites his tongue even harder before answering appropriately. “This is Flash Thompson,” he says. That’s all. He doesn’t offer Wade’s name to Flash. The man doesn’t deserve to know it anyway. “We went to high school together.”

Wade reaches around Peter easily to offer a hand to Flash. It makes Peter feel sick, really. To see Wade touch Flash. He doesn’t want Wade to be tainted by this guy.

And then he sees the way Flash winces at the strength of Wade’s handshake. It makes him feel just a bit lighter.

“Ah, well it’s always nice to meet some of Peter’s old classmates,” Wade says sounding every bit like a politician, before switching his attention. “Just finished up ordering the new granite countertop. I was thinking we should remodel our bathroom with marble. I’m getting tired of being surrounded by so much granite,” he babbles, smiling as Peter looks up at him.

Then Wade turns toward Flash and fixes his gaze on the bundle in Flash’s hands. He cringes unapologetically. “You’re not buying that, are you?”

Flash blinks rapidly like he’s trying to process Wade’s presence. Wade continues anyway because he’s very good at having conversations by himself.

“That’s on sale for a reason,” Wade remarks casually. “That _Le Creuset_ piece is overproduced and from a line marketed five seasons ago. I doubt it has any value. You might as well grab it at Walmart,” he says, bending a little at the waist and squinting his eyes at the box. “I mean unless you’re really passionate about making [aspic](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aspic). Which I thought was a lost art known only to housewives of the ‘fifties.”

“What?” Flash asks in the face of Wade’s verbal tsunami.

“That’s an aspic mold,” Wade says like he’s talking to a child. “You don’t need to act embarrassed, you’re among friends,” he claps Peter on the back. “I think it’s quaint that you have a vintage hobby. It takes a real man to experiment with _Jell-O_.”

Flash looks confused but insulted anyway.

Wade keeps his hand on Peter’s shoulder, thumb stroking it. “You wanna go look at marble samples now, Peter?” he offers. A quick escape from a relatively clean conversation. It is exactly what Peter wanted. He hadn’t desired a brash bullying scene like Flash was so used to gracing him with.

“We have a reservation at _[Le Bernardin](https://www.le-bernardin.com/)_ later,” Wade tacks on. Peter’s got no idea what that is, but the way Flash’s eye twitches must mean it’s something enviable.

Peter nods thankfully, allowing himself to be turned by Wade’s arm. They’re so, so close to getting away. But Flash chooses that moment to resurrect himself.

“Shit,” he clicks his tongue rudely. “Always knew we called you _Penis_ Parker for a reason.”

Wade suddenly halts. Peter can feel the way his body tenses. No, no! Peter just wants to leave. He reaches for Wade’s hand, giving it a feeble tug. He doesn’t want to make a commotion. Peter doesn’t want Flash to ruin this for him. He was having a good time with Wade and he wants to salvage that.

But Wade can’t let this one go. Peter feels his answer tug on his hand. Peter is surprised that when Wade speaks, his voice is level and full of parental disappointment. Peter’s never heard that tone of voice from him before save for the time he told Wade he wasn’t planning on letting him go to Stark Tower alone. After which Wade had promptly escaped through a window with a can of C4 and left Peter with Weasel.

Peter thus predicts bad things afoot. 

“Excuse me, did you just throw a homophobic slur at my boyfriend?” he asks and Peter turns, already hunching in, to see…well, not what he expected to see.

He expected to see Flash standing there defiantly, directing his cruel eyes and sly barbs toward Wade now, just for interfering with his interaction with Peter. That’s what always happened to Ned at school. Peter would get bullied, Ned would try to speak up for him, and Flash would rain down ten times harder on both of them. After a while, Peter had urged Ned to stop standing up on his behalf. It was Peter that Flash wanted. Peter was crushed with guilt when Flash subjected Ned to his abuse too. He’d be even more crushed if Flash said something hurtful to Wade.

But Flash doesn’t look like he’s gearing up for a fight. Instead, he looks like he wants to fold himself into a small origami crane and fly away. His harsh features are stewing with discomfort.

“I’m not sure what century you’re from, but discrimination isn’t cool nowadays. Bigotry is cowardice. I don’t appreciate you saying thinly veiled abusive remarks to my boyfriend or me. Are you threatening him?” Then Wade steps around Peter, shoulders lifting and feet widening his stance as though he’s preparing for a fight. The slight shortening of distance between him and Flash seems to spook Flash even further. Peter can’t see his face, but Wade’s voice suddenly sounds the barest bit unhinged. “Those words sounded like a threat to me. Threatening a person based on their sexual orientation is considered aggravated harassment in the second degree. That’s [illegal](https://statelaws.findlaw.com/new-york-law/new-york-harassment-laws.html) in the state of New York,” Wade says, the thumb on one of his hands pressing down on each of his fingers individually so that his knuckles pop loudly in succession.

Flash’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He seems to grapple with speechlessness at Wade’s confrontation. Wade’s not done though. Peter and Flash watch him with two different brands of surprise as he continues glaring Flash down like a disobedient teenager. Despite being a bad apple, Peter doubts anyone has done anything but coddle Flash his entire life. The look on his face says just that.

“You said you were interested in pharmacy school? Forget it, homie. The New York licensing [exam](http://www.op.nysed.gov/prof/pharm/pharmlic.htm) requires you to be of good moral character to become a practicing pharmacist. You’ll be subjected to a background check. I’m certain a class A misdemeanor would tell the licensing board all they need to know about what type of a citizen you are.”

With that, Wade reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Peter sees him unlock it before he raises it too far for Peter to get a proper glimpse of what he’s doing. Flash, though, rears back. He’s sweaty, Peter notices, like someone who’s about to face a guillotine.

He looks like he wants to say something absolutely scathing, but his mouth seems sewn up. He sneers instead, looking from Wade to Peter, then back to Wade who’s pulling his phone up further.

Peter is astonished when Flash drops the _Le Creuset_ box to the floor, then spits out a quick and forced, but very clear, “Sorry,” at Peter.

He speed-walks away from them and out of the door of the store.

Peter has absolutely no response.

No response at all. Nothing. Zip. Nada. His mind is blank, wide eyes staring at the dust Flash kicked up in his escape.

Dead.

Wade hums and pushes his phone back into the safety of his pocket. He grabs Peter’s hand more firmly, then he pulls him right back to where they came from. Suddenly, they’re looking at marble samples with the salivating store attendant hovering dedicatedly at Wade’s side—probably the side closest to where his wallet resides.

Peter sits through three rounds of samples unseeingly before his brain finally reboots.

What? What just happened?

A good twenty minutes must have passed from now and when Flash beat it. Peter tilts his head at an obnoxious angle to regard Wade.

Wade smiles wonkily at him, his scars twisting into a new shape. “I hate bullies,” he tells Peter. “The best way to shut them up is a good AK-47 or a stiff stick of dynamite in a place the sun don’t shine,” he says merrily. “But I didn’t think you’d appreciate that. So I adulted him into submission. Nothing like a spoonful of reality to quell a man’s ego. A bully’s only got power if you stay silent and let him feed off of your fear.”

Wade stops himself, pursing his lips and looking off over Peter’s shoulder for a quick second in thought. “Like a poltergeist,” he mumbles to himself. “Anyway,” he nods with authority, reaching down to rub at what is presumably a wrinkle between Peter’s eyebrows. “If you see something, say something.”

Peter feels just as speechless as Flash looked. For different reasons, of course.

“That’s the Metropolitan Transportation Authority’s slogan to promote civilian interference with domestic crime,” is what comes out of his mouth. Not what he wanted to say. Definitely not the ‘thank you’ that’s on the tip of his tongue or the utter awe he feels. Wade just single-handedly crushed Peter’s childhood enemy.

It is more than awesome. It’s unbelievable. Peter feels like he’s dreaming or in an episode of _The Twilight Zone._ Things like this just don’t happen. Especially not to Peter.

Wade, however, just grins harder, like Peter’s completely on the right page. “Exactly! Homophobia is literally a homeland security threat. Ignorant people have a superpower that allows them to band together and share their stupidity like a plague. They must be eliminated. Therefore: see a bully? Speak up; just do it.”

“ _Nike_ ,” Peter replies in a daze.

“No, sweetheart,” Wade winks, “I didn’t capitalize it.”

And then, somehow, they’re back to looking at marble samples. Peter stands, weight pressed into Wade, thinking a million things and nothing all at once. Wade lets him choose the marble, which is a totally mistake because, to Peter’s crowded mind, each marble block looks exactly the same as the others. Wade still murmurs in agreement when Peter points to one that has more black rings than the others. Wade fills out the papers, hands over a credit card, and seems to continue life like he didn’t just alter Peter’s reality.

When they’re outside of the store, waiting for Dopinder, Wade keeps a heavy arm on Peter’s shoulder. Peter accepts it gratefully, least he’ll be blown away by another one of Wade’s underhandedly kind actions.

“So, Peter Parker. That’s a sweet name,” Wade says airily. “No really, like it’s so sweet and adorable, I can’t even. The alliteration screams good ol’ American boy. I just can’t even.”

Peter looks up at that.

Flash had said his surname. He’d said it loud and obnoxiously. He’s never called Peter anything but Parker or Penis Parker. Of course, Wade heard it. Standing just three feet from Peter when Flash had swaggered up, Wade would have to be the crappiest mercenary in history to not have heard their conversation.

It should fill Peter with anxiety—Wade knowing his last name, that is. With this encounter, Wade could do a quick search on any engine. Peter Parker, went to the designated high school for gifted kids in Queens: Midtown High. Using his age and knowing Flash Thompson was a classmate, Wade could easily jump into the rabbit hole, coming out on the other side with nearly all of the answers as to who Peter is.

Peter’s not afraid of him knowing. Wade’s not going to do anything with the information. Instead of feeling fear, Peter laughs softly at the irony. He lets his head rest a little, low on Wade’s chest.

Wade looks down at him fondly, but curiously. One word and Wade would delete the information from his mind. Peter knows he would if Peter asked. Peter doesn’t ask though. Wade catches on to that and looks like Peter’s just given him a declaration of trust forged in obsidian.

Peter sends him a sarcastic glance.

“Really?” Peter raises a brow at him. “You’re going to start on the alliteration of _my_ name? You, Mister Wade Winston Wilson?”

The way Wade freezes is almost imperceptible. Almost. It’s just a moment of frozen surprise before his face continues onwards, stitched with affection that Peter doesn’t know how he’s won. Peter’s brain, which was previously stagnating with overstimulation, makes a quick connection.

“You never told me that.” Peter says what Wade won’t, biting his lip. Wade’s grip doesn’t tighten and he doesn’t look like he’s about to tie Peter down and start waterboarding him for explanations. He just stands there, holding Peter up without complaint, and waits for Peter to answer his own questions.

He doesn't ask how Peter knows his middle name. Wade hadn’t told him. Weasel hadn’t blurted it out. So _how_ does Peter know?

The dossier is how he knows. The dossier and his notebook, sitting in his bedside table, after all this time. It holds a lot of information on Wade.

Why won’t Wade ask?

He just stands there, compliant. Like a dog watching its master passively.

“You’re not going to ask how I know?” Peter shifts to look at Wade properly, eye to eye as much as the height difference will allow.

Nothing about Wade’s personality fits with the act. If Wade’s a canine, then he’s a wolf, not a dog. He’s a lone wolf: no alpha, no leader. He’s his own master. He hunts when he wants and enjoys each kill for himself. He’s playful-Wade one moment, then feral-Deadpool the next and the only one who flips the coin is himself—isn’t that his modus operandi?

Miley Cyrus isn’t the only one who can’t be tamed.

But Wade just shakes his head, reaching out to run placating fingers through Peter’s hair again.

Peter can’t be placated right now.

He’s missing a puzzle piece.

“Why do you do this?” Peter asks without thinking. “Why do you let me keep secrets?”

It’s a question that brings them back to reality. It’s a question that brings the entire lifespan of their acquaintance back to the drawing board. Why? Peter’s skimmed the question many times over the past months. Wade knows Peter is only half of who he says he is. He knows Peter is purposefully leaving him in the dark, hiding bits of himself close to his shadow, where he hopes no one will find them. Peter hides, but Wade _knows_. He’s seen fleeting appearances of Peter’s shadow. He’s been close enough to dig and find those bits, but he never picks up a shovel. He simply waits patiently until Peter offers one up.

Why?

Peter’s always frustrated that he doesn’t know more about Wade. Not too long ago, he was steaming because he didn’t know what Wade’s naked body looked like. An immature sentiment, but a good point. He hates Wade’s secrets, including the woman in the photograph and the mystery of his tight allegiance to Weasel. Peter’s always thinking of the Deadpool artichoke and how he wants to rid each layer until he knows all of the secrets.

Doesn’t Wade feel the same about Peter?

Peter looks into his eyes searchingly to find the answer: yes. Yes, he does. Wade feels the exact same way.

Wade’s eyes look how Peter feels, thirsty for knowledge. But his gaze shines with an endurance that Peter often lacks. Like Peter’s sprinting, but Wade’s pacing for a marathon.

“Why?” he asks again, a hand coming up to fist the material of Wade’s shirt.

Wade doesn’t even blink at Peter’s shaking hand. He covers it with his own and speaks with echoing finality.

“Because I want you,” he confesses effortlessly like he has nothing to lose by showing his cards to Peter. “I’ve lost a lot of things, a lot of people. If I ask you to give up too much too soon, I’m going to lose you before I’ve properly had you.”

Wade plucks Peter’s hand from his shirt, smoothing Peter’s hand from its clenched form.

“I want you and I’m going to play every game of yours so that I can keep you.”

Peter feels his words loud and clear, echoing in his own chest.

-

Dopinder picks them up, waving at them excitedly. He has one earbud plugged in and when they get into the car, he beams at Peter from beyond the divider. Dopinder grins and points at the earbud enthusiastically.

“Gita,” he mouths happily.

They’ve caught Dopinder in the midst of planning a second date with Gita. Peter feels relieved that his romance is going well. Half because he really didn’t want to track Dopinder (plus his borrowed taser down at night), and half because he’s positive Dopinder deserves it. Minus the creepiness that sprung out of nowhere, Dopinder does seem like a genuinely good guy. He doesn’t set off any of Peter’s alerts.

Peter gives him a thumbs up of encouragement. The gesture is well received by Dopinder, who returns it, then pulls out of the store parking lot, jabbering on in Hindi.

It does pay off to be the good guy, Peter muses with satisfaction. Dopinder got his date fair and square, with a little old fashion wooing.

Which reminds Peter.

Turning to Wade, who had seemingly watched Peter and Dopinder’s interaction with a little grin of approval.

Peter’s still unsure how Wade’s just sitting there casually like he didn’t throw two curveballs at Peter today. His unexpected and well-played destruction of Flash. And the reveal of his dedication to Peter.

Peter’s never felt more _wanted_. It’s an addictive feeling, he muses, to ostensibly mean this much to someone. To be important to someone. To be so desired that someone’s willing to put up with a fake reality just to get close to Peter. He would be lying if he said that Wade’s dedication to him didn’t fill Peter with a fresh breath of life. He still hasn’t calmed from the realization, but Wade’s sitting next to him as peaceful as still waters. Boy, do they run deep.

“What’s _Le Bernardin?_ ” Peter asks, his pronunciation a poor mimic of Wade’s.

“A seafood restaurant on West Fifty-First Street,” Wade replies. “We don’t actually have a reservation, I just said it, so your stuck-up classmate would can it. Unless you want a reservation? I can make that happen.” Wade admits it all unsympathetically and innocently. At the end, he pulls out his phone again and waves it like a fairy godmother with a magic wand.

Peter frowns. A seafood restaurant? Why would that impress Flash?

“It’s a French restaurant famous for it’s tasting menus. The cheapest meal is a vegetarian dinner tasting that’s a hundred and seventy dollars per person without the addition of vino,” Wade explains with a bored expression that lightens up when Peter chokes on air.

That’s a ridiculous amount of money for one dinner. Peter can easily have a dinner for sixty-nine cents. The dinner’s name? _Nissin_ Ramen Noodles, beef flavor.

“That’s insane!” Peter cries in outrage.

Wade lifts a shoulder at him. “Can’t put a price on good food, Petey. A meal that tantalizes the taste buds is priceless.”

Peter looks at him like he’s insane. “No,” he protests, “No way. No one should be spending that much money on one meal. What are the meals made with, gold flakes?”

Wade just nods seriously. “And truffle,” he adds. “And caviar. Hashtag: [worth](https://www.buzzfeed.com/worthit) it.”

“That’s crazy!” Peter has never felt very passionate about food. The only thing he does passionately about food is eat it when it’s placed in front of him. But he can’t fathom anyone paying that price tag for a piece of fish. Gross. Definitely not hashtag worth it. He grimaces.

“Not a fan of seafood, I take it?” Wade observes, eyes shining with the amusement he always wears when watching Peter squirm.

Peter shakes his head. Absolutely not. Peter can’t get over the way it stinks like marine water. It smells briny and metallic, of iodine and algae. And that’s before it starts smelling like rot. Whereas the iron earthiness—he can nearly smell its delectability now—of meat smells mouthwatering, the pungent scent of fish makes Peter gag. He has it on good authority that Wade partakes in seafood; his rant about tuna snacks had been passionate enough. But luckily for Peter, Wade hasn’t cracked a can of tuna in Peter’s presence. For which Peter is eternally grateful, because the stink stays in his nose for hours after like his olfactory receptors can’t filter it out.

“It smells bad.”

“Spoken like a person who’s never eaten seafood before,” Wade hums. “We’ll start you off with something less fishy, like tilapia.”

Furrowing his brows, Peter shudders and looks up at Wade defiantly. “Literally, ‘fishy’ translates to ‘nasty’. Why do people make a big fuss about eating fish when they describe the tastiness of fish in terms of how fishy it is? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Wade dissolves into laughter. Another example of Wade thinking Peter’s hilarious, but really, Peter’s just speaking his mind.

“Hm, yeah, that is rather fishy, isn’t it?” Wade taps twice on an invisible drum, then once on an imaginary cymbal.

He grins widely at Peter.

Peter does not laugh because that was _not_ funny.

“Fuck, Bambi,” Wade chortles. “Here I am, trying to show you the [world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeDYx7Tkc7I), shining, shimmering, splendid—a new fantastic point of view. And you’re crushing my Disney prince mode in action today. Savage.”

Peter crosses his arms and looks at Wade’s laughing form. He narrows his eyes. “You tried to buy me things today. And sneakily manipulate me into accepting a reservation at some five-star restaurant,” Peter recounts. “That’s not Disney prince mode,” he accuses while shoving a finger into Wade’s bicep, punishingly. “That’s sugar daddy mode.” Cue the shiver tingling from his spine to his fingertips. Ignore that; look cool. Act natural and he’s moving on now.

Yeah, tell Peter he’s not catching on. The more time he spends with Wade, the easier it is to see right through him.

Wade doesn’t have the decency to look guilty. He just looks at Peter, licking his chops in the best fuckboy impression Peter’s seen on him to date.

“If I’m the daddy—” Oh, and Peter does not like the way his nerves twist and curl at that. He doesn’t like it one bit. He doesn’t like the way he’s starting to get hot and sweaty, the memory of their last time flirting at the periphery of his mind. He’s about to feel the telltale punch of arousal when Wade ruins it for him—or saves Peter from himself—by winking sleazily. Thank God. “Where’s the sugar?”

He points at his lips expectantly.

“You’re not getting a kiss after that performance,” Peter does his best to turn away from Wade and ignore his leering. Part of him is giddy and amused by the conversation. These stupid moments with Wade are what he lives for. They’re little breaks from life that he couldn’t be happier to indulge in.

The other part of him is wondering why Wade looks like he’s found a steak.

Abort. Activate millennial social stress coping mechanism. Peter tries to phub Wade, but he remembers last minute that his phone is dead. So, in fact, Peter ends up looking awkwardly at a phone with a black screen to contemplate its betrayal, hunched over moodily, and glaring at Wade.

Wade cackles at him.

Peter responds with a punch. How’s that for sugar?

“[Sugar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nwgbfriHWt8),” Wade groans, but does his best to keep his sleaziness up, “Aw, honey, honey, I just can’t believe the loveliness of loving you. Fuck, remind me to never take you kickboxing. Sexy gym date two will be Zumba.”

“I don’t think so.”

-

They spend the rest of the day at Wade’s condo, as per usual. They don’t go to _Le Bernardin_ and Wade doesn’t cook tilapia. He makes Bolognese instead. They eat spaghetti in front of the television because Wade is trying to rot Peter’s brain with the use of Netflix.

Wade slurps his noodles indecently.

Like two lazy lumps, they don’t get up until hours later when they’re both hungry again.

“I’m quite peckish,” Wade drawls in a British accent. A really bad, generic British accent. God, it’s horrible.

Peter looks up at him from several blankets he stole from the bedroom. “Me too.”

They blink at each other in a stalemate.

“Tacos?” Peter asks hopefully. Like if he asks for food by name, Wade will snap his fingers and it will appear. He’s pretty sure that’s how it works. That’s what it looks like when Wade’s in the kitchen, anyway. A flurry of rapid hand movements and poor karaoke, and boom! Food appears in front of Peter. It’s always exactly what he’s in the mood for, too.

“Soulmate,” Wade sighs dreamily. Then without further explanation, he’s picking up his phone and calling for delivery. He doesn’t ask Peter what he wants, but it sounds like he’s ordering all of the menu.

Peter turns his attention to where the _Supernatural_ credits are rolling on the television. They’re watching the latest season. Peter doesn’t know how this show keeps getting renewed, but when he’d commented offhandedly about it, Wade had shrieked and started spitting out a fangirl level of knowledge about its intricate storylines. Peter has a hunch the renewals are more for the dedicated fanbase and steady income than they are because of any plot minutiae, but he nods anyway. Peter relented easily to watching it, if only to enjoy Wade’s animated excitement. Netflix is starting the countdown for the next episode.

As Wade finishes up on the phone, Peter reaches out to the coffee table where a stack of chibi Deadpool doodles are staring back at him.

He smiles.

He kind of wants to frame these.

Pulling the stack of papers to him, he continues the admiration he’d started on this morning. God, was it really only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago. So much has happened since then. Peter steadily blocks the wave of anxiety threatening his fortress. Not here. Not right now. It’s been a draining day. Peter wants to get through this night, content and doing nothing with Wade. Just one more reprieve. He’ll deal with the brunt of it all tomorrow.

He flips through the pages as Wade finishes up the phone call, confirming he’ll pay with cash. Absently, Peter turns the pages around, wondering what they’d been doodling all over. In all of his time hanging out with Wade in his condo, he’s actually never seen papers on his coffee table.

The table is used mostly as a footrest for Wade, which is horrifying because the furniture is, as Wade said, definitely not IKEA.

He’s startled when he flips the pages around to find a shoddy, black and white photograph on the front.

Peter stares at it for a few seconds.

It’s not a stack of papers. It’s a file. A file on a person.

Peter doesn’t flip further into the packet, but he eyes the first page greedily. It’s a list of statistics, not dissimilar to the dossiers Peter has at home.

The name at the top reads: Adric Johnson.

“Alrighty then, tacos in progress,” Wade drops the phone like a mic. “They should be here in less than a half an hour. C’mere snookums, I want to cuddle the shit out of you. I have a weakness for Mexican food and you look cute in burrito cosplay.”

Peter lets Wade pull him on top of the man’s lap. Peter inadvertently brings the papers with him.

“What’s this?” Peter asks looking up at Wade’s chin.

Wade hums, not making any move to rip the papers from Peter’s hands. It’s clearly not a secret, then. “Ah, one of my favors was called in,” he says with a suffering sigh.

Perking up with interest and a light zap of concern, Peter twists to see Wade’s face properly. “You mean Weasel called in a favor?”

“Yep,” Wade rolls his eyes. “The bastard was quick to cash in. Don’t worry your pretty little head. It’s nothing to write home about. He just wants me looking into Sunny’s claim.”

Peter still dislikes Sunny. He still hasn’t found it in him to forgive the man for thinking Peter was a prostitute. It’s not really a dire offense, but he gives Peter the creeps. Wade seems to dislike him too, purely for the man’s sheer idiocy. From Wade’s conversation with Weasel, Peter’s gathered that Sunny has a distorted hero-worship-slash-hate relationship with Wade that gets Wade peeved.

“His claim?”

Wade purses his lips a little and Peter now sees it for what it is: hesitance. Wade is still hesitant to include Peter in his work. Peter’s nearly positive this is because he’d told Wade he didn’t approve of mercenary work. But just like when Peter had asked about his international mercenary career, Wade relents after a moment.

“You were there when Weasel brought it up,” Wade says, one arm steadily holding Peter to him. “Sunny didn’t get to his target in time. Says a ninja took the target out first.”

Peter’s face must say it all because Wade scoffs and nods in agreement. “I know. Alien technology, X-Men, pedophiles wearing nursing shoes. Those all exist. Seen them with my own eyes. I’m sad to report that I’ve never encountered a ninja in the lovely, polluted streets of New York City.”

“So Sunny’s lying,” Peter concludes hesitantly.

“Probably,” Wade confirms. “But we don’t know for sure. Weasel wants me to check it out. I-R-L, we have to consider the facts. Sunny’s target was a man of medium interest,” Wade pokes Johnson’s picture. “You see this here?”

Wade uses one hand to flip the page and point to a blocky section of text.

“Johnson wasn’t a big fish, but he wasn’t a small one either. He was a freelance heist hacker,” Wade explains.

Peter looks away from the paper and up to Wade for elaboration. “A what?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, baby,” Wade leans back a bit, pulling Peter with him. “He offered hacking services, on a for-hire basis. Not contract work, just assignment work. He specialized in timed security breaches. If you ever needed a man to silence an alarm while you stole ten thousand carats of diamonds, this would have been your dude.”

Peter licks his lips. He’s always darkly impressed with the level of crime that exists. “You’re saying that robbers hired him to hack into security systems, so they could steal things without having to worry about tipping off the police,” Wade nods. “Where does one even advertise such skills?”

Honestly, where do these people even hang out? How does crime get so organized?

Wade shrugs, “Dark-web _Fiverr_?” he proposes. “Or just _Craigslist_.” Sadly, it sounds exactly like what’s probably happening.

“Wow.”

Wade continues on like it’s commonplace. It probably is. “My point is, he wasn’t insignificant enough that a counter-hit on him was inconceivable. But he wasn’t a big enough fish that a counter-hit on him was likely. Nearly all of his old clientele had positive things to say about him, with the exception of the client that funded Sunny’s hire. The bro pissed off like exactly one person and he happened to be a spiteful asshole that called Weasel up to plan his demise. Insert Bad Luck Brian [meme](https://imgflip.com/i/2jdlwh) here.”

Peter is really trying to piece together Wade’s mercenary language. He hadn’t realized there was such a huge subculture to this job. “A counter-hit. As in, another mercenary hired to kill the same target. But not hired through Weasel because Weasel wouldn’t be dumb enough to double book someone.”

“Exactly,” Wade pats Peter’s hip in muted applause.

“I don’t really understand. Why would Sunny bother lying that a ninja killed his target?” Peter presses on, “What’s the big deal? Why does it matter if someone else killed the target? I mean, as long as he’s dead, the clients got what they wanted, right? A job well done.” Peter feels terrible for speaking so flippantly about a human life. But his curiosity needles him.

“That’s the way it should go, but things rarely play out as they should, Bambi,” Wade reminds him with a strange sort of wisdom. “One issue is the money. Payment is given to the merc who neutralizes the target. Sunny won’t get paid if he didn’t. In fact, no one gets paid if he didn’t. Weasel will have to refund the submission request fee.”

“Okay,” Peter follows. It’s always about money in the end. “I still don’t get the big deal. Why lie about a ninja? Why not just refund the client? Is Sunny that afraid of Weasel?”

Wade chuckles, “Everyone’s hide-ya-kids-hide-ya-[wife](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EzNhaLUT520) afraid of Weasel, but that’s not his primary fear.”

“What is?”

“I highly doubt a ninja or a rival merc took out Sunny’s target. I think Sunny’s such a shit merc that his relatively intelligent target got hip to Sunny’s tracking. A smart dude like that, speaking to computers, and hustling code? Definitely caught on to Sunny and gave him the slip. Sunny says a ninja killed his target, but a body was never found. Johnson’s missing, not dead.”

Peter tilts his head in consideration. “Just because there’s no body doesn’t mean he’s not dead.”

“True dat, baby boy. But contrary to what Hollywood will tell you, mercs aren’t actually in the business of making people disappear. We’re not [Pinochet](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_rights_violations_in_Pinochet%27s_Chile). Such a request is unusual. When people want someone dead, they want them cold and bleeding out on the floor—formally dead to the world. Our main clients: politicians, businessmen, jealous husbands, and general douchebags. All of them want a body left behind. They always have a message to tell some other party.”

Wade’s job as a mercenary has never felt this real to Peter. As they sit here, discussing the particulars of it, Peter finds himself both disgusted and reluctantly intrigued.

“What’s Sunny’s primary fear?” Peter asks again.

“If a merc doesn’t follow through with the request, the client has the option of invoking the Redemption Right.” Wade looks idly at the chibi doodles peeking out behind the first page.

“I’m sorry, the what?”

Wade looks up and gives Peter a grimly amused smile. Peter does not enjoy that smile at all. It looks so out of place on Wade’s face. “A request is a contract, Bambi. All contracts are binding and they come with fine print that you learn to read if you’re in this game. If a merc fails to complete the contract, the client has the option of putting a hit, free of charge, on the merc who failed.”

“What? That’s archaic.”

“That’s business, sweetheart,” Wade croons. “The Redemption Right is a popular go-to when a target isn’t delivered. Clients are vindictive a-holes and, well, everyone loves free shit.”

“What would that solve? It sounds like unwarranted bloodshed,” Peter says with distaste.

“It’s customer service, bae,” Wade takes the papers from Peter and waves them dramatically, fanning himself. “Gotta appease the client somehow, make sure he doesn’t leave us a bad review or change his allegiance to another mercenary organization.”

“That’s...” Peter trails off. He doesn’t have the words for that. It’s more than disgusting. The business of murdering people is disgusting in and of itself. But adding in a clause that okays the murdering of your employee just to pacify a client’s unhappiness with their performance? That can’t be a real business model.

Wade strokes Peter’s thigh in apology, like he’s trying to erase Peter’s repugnance.

“Sunny’s target got the hell out of Dodge. He’s probably deep undercover, in witness protection in Guam. Or spending his paychecks right in Bangkok. A ninja didn’t take him out. Sunny wants us to believe a counter-hit was issued, so he can void the Redemption Right. If another merc took him out, Weasel would have to refund the client, but after that, everyone would be on their merry way.”

Peter sees it now.

Weasel’s enlisted Wade’s help to verify that another mercenary took out Sunny’s target. If Wade finds evidence that Sunny’s story is true, Sunny won’t have to face the possibility of a redemption right and Weasel will be forced to give the client a refund. If Wade finds evidence that Sunny’s lying, that there was no counter-hit, then Weasel will know that Sunny’s contract was not fulfilled. And Sunny might become the target of his own hire.

“Annoying thing is, this is Sunny’s second target lost. Both he claims got ninja-ed in the night. It’s not looking too good for him.”

How complicated and macabre.

Peter doesn’t like Sunny, but he doesn’t wish him dead either.

Swallowing heavily, Peter grabs the papers back from Wade to stare at Adric Johnson’s face. He looks so familiar.

“Have you ever seen him before?” Peter asks. Wade shrugs under Peter’s weight and murmurs a negative answer. Peter presses on though. “Are you sure? He never came into _Sister Margaret’s_ or anything?”

“Don’t think so, Bambi,” Wade replies. “Weas keep a detailed record of everyone who goes inside the bar. If it’s not noted in his file, he didn’t come to _Sissy_ ’s.”

Peter cringes at that, looking up to where Wade gives him a very wolfish, Weasel-like smile. “Receipts everywhere, baby. For all of us.”

Ugh. Peter’s not going to dwell on that now. That’s just a recipe for trouble. What kind of trouble isn’t Peter in? Mr. Stark can literally never know.

“He looks really familiar to me,” Peter grunts through his thoughts.

"Yeah, baby?" Wade hums when Peter nods affirmatively. Then, Wade licks his lips, eyes dropping to Peter’s cheeks distractedly. Why? Peter doesn’t know. Sometimes Wade is just off in his own head. Peter would complain, but this is a quality that they both share. Peter clears his throat, nudging Wade with his elbow. He raises amused eyebrows when Wade wrinkles his nose, scrunching up his face in exaggerated thought. 

“He was in the papers not too long ago as a missing person,” Wade suggests.

Ah, right.

Peter saw his photo in the newspaper when he was restocking at Mr. Delmar’s. That’s where Peter had seen him before.

Sighing, Peter puts the papers delicately back on the coffee table, before resettling his weight on Wade. Out of impulse, he grabs the man’s hand and holds it in both of his. He flips it over, elongated his fingers, thumbs along his palm. He notes the new patterns of scarring.

Wade’s hands are big and boxy. Long, capable fingers that are dexterous but thick. His knuckles bulge and even through the network of scars, Peter can see his blue veins popping through. Peter likes how his own hand fits in Wade’s. He presses their hands together, measuring them up, seeing where his fingers reach up to.

Peter’s hands are like the rest of him. Thin, with blunt fingers. Pale skin from which his tendons stick out too easily. Unremarkable, like Peter. The only thing that’s good about them is that they are stronger than they look and they help Peter stick to walls.

He likes Wade’s hands better.

He might be biased because Wade’s hands feel much better on his body than his own do.

Erratic as usual, Peter’s mind chooses this moment to jostle him with an important memory. A very vital memory.

He stares at Wade’s hand.

“One of your targets got,” he bites his lip. He doesn’t want to say murdered or killed in the context of Wade. Not because he doesn’t know what Wade’s job entails. Just. Well, just because. “Neutralized. Not by you.”

Very well-articulated, Parker. Such smooth moves.

Wade’s hand does not tell him any answers, so he’s forced to turn again, shifting in his burrito, to look at Wade. The man is watching Peter, the picture of relaxed and content.

It’s flattering.

It would also be flattering if Wade answered his not-question question. “Wade?” he asks, but Wade’s still gazing at where their hands are interlocked. “Wade? Hello?”

No response.

Peter pinches the skin right below Wade’s thumb.

“Ow!” Wade jumps, sending them both two inches from where they were previously settled on the couch. “Fuck! He giveth and he taketh away.”

Peter leans into survey Wade’s cringing face. “Did you just compare me to Jesus?”

“No,” Wade whines, looking at their hands with a big pout. He doesn’t pull away from Peter though, just sits there looking melodramatic. “That wouldn’t be right when you’re clearly the spawn of Satan.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I barely pinched you.”

“You pinched me hard,” Wade bellows, a smile already forming on his face. “What are you, a half-mutant crustacean? I knew your superpower was underwhelming and that’s why you didn’t want to tell me about it. Lame. What’s the rest of your powers, being crabby?”

When Wade lights up like he’s onto something, Peter is quick to cut him off. “Oh, shut up. That was a horrible pun. Answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask a question, little burrito of evil,” Wade retorts smugly.

“You failed to neutralize one of your targets. I remember Weasel coming in to yell at you about it.”

“Still not a question, Petey pie,” Wade grins, “But I’m good at reading in between the lines. You don’t have to worry about any Redemption Right invoked for me. My target was confirmed to be neutralized by an independent party; it was one of Weasel’s street contacts. The refund came from my own pocket because Weas is an assmunch.”

Peter sighs in relief at that.

“Aw, baby, were you worried about me?” Wade sits up excitedly, gathering Peter more firmly in his arms. Peter, very restricted as a blanket burrito, has no choice but to allow Wade’s rearrangement that has him snugly pressed up to him. One of Wade’s arms supports his back and the other finds its way under Peter’s knees. He’s holding Peter bridle-style as they sit on the red couch.

Peter gives him a dry look.

“You don’t have to worry, sweetpea, I’m indestructible. I’m basically the Terminator. Everyone knows if they put a hit on me, I’ll be back, [baby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XY9jQq7U85c).”

It’s only funny because it’s true. It only brings Peter a small level of comfort though. Just because Wade can’t die doesn’t mean that someone out there won’t try. If they have enough motivation, they could try to put a hit on Wade. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt him. And Peter doesn’t want him to ever be hurt.

“No one’s putting the breaks on this party bus. Hop aboard and strap in, dollface. I wanna give you a good, long ride,” Wade can’t even keep a straight face with his own pitiful pick-up lines. “Choo-choo!”

“Wade,” Peter reaches out to pat him on the chest. “Buses don’t go ‘choo-choo’. Trains do, if you’re five years old.”

Wade looks down very seriously at Peter. “I told you being crabby was your superpower.”

Peter’s scathing response is butchered by Wade flipping them over and pressing Peter into the couch. He lays heavily on top of Peter and leans in to lick wetly at Peter’s lips.

“We have ten minutes before the tacos arrive,” Wade murmurs cheerfully. “Wanna make-out?”

Peter really wants to believe that he has an iron will and that Wade licking at his lips like an overeager terrier does not hit any of his buttons. It does, unfortunately. Wade’s just this big, warm thing on top of him, weighing him down oh-so-sweetly into the cushions of the couch. His tongue feels like velvet and when his lips dart under his chin to kiss at his neck, Peter just crumbles like a cookie in milk. There’s that bottomless hunger, tugging at his stomach again. He can’t wait for the food to arrive.

“Bet I only need five minutes to get you hard.”

Maybe Peter is a half-mutant crustacean. These pinches just keep coming out of him as easy as breathing. Wade deserves it, even if his time prediction is scarily accurate. The tacos interrupt them before Wade can notice.

Or so Peter hopes, for the sake of his manly dignity.

-

Peter spends the night with Wade. Again. Or, for real, this time? He stops that exploration of thought quickly. He wakes up to their usual routine, in a beautifully fostered world cradled with laughs and pancakes. It’s when he turns on his newly charged phone that the sky starts falling.

He blanches a sickly shade of white.

His phone is full of unread text messages and missed calls. Mr. Delmar, asking where Peter is and why he didn’t show up for work. Aunt May with persistent, gentle messages hoping to plan some time to eat out again with him. And the worst and newest text is a standalone message from Mr. Stark.

 _Hey kid. It’s been a few days_  
_since you donned the suit._  
_What gives? You alright?_  
_How you holding up, bud?_  
_It's okay to take a break, you know._  
_Just let me know._

Peter’s ghostly pallor turns green. He feels extremely close to vomiting. It takes all the will in the world to confess to Wade that he has to leave. He kisses Wade goodbye in a way that’s starting to become too familiar: lingering. He resolutely throws himself into the kiss like it isn’t a goodbye. He unabashedly clings to Wade as if he holds on tightly enough, Wade will persuade him to stay and Peter can procrastinate addressing his problems. But it doesn’t matter how much Wade has become a safe place for him.

He never persuades Peter to stay.

Because he’s silently noble like that.

Wade will make all of the lascivious remarks in the word, but he never pushes Peter to do things. Ever. Whether it’s sex, sharing information about himself, or spending the day with him. Wade hasn’t once outright seduced Peter into spending a moment longer with him than he does. And he certainly has the power to. Wade is tempting enough when he’s just standing still, inhaling oxygen. If Wade ever engaged in a half-cocked version of seduction, Peter would probably follow him into a dumpster for weeks.

When Peter says he has to leave, Wade always escorts him to the door and does a bang-up job of being lighthearted, as though he can’t bear to send Peter off with anything but a smile.

Peter’s not the same. When he leaves Wade, he gets stormy. When it comes time for him to go, he lingers and lollygags. Wade lets Peter have an angst episode but still watches him walk to the elevator with a grin.

High-key pathetic.

Peter frowns his way out the door of the apartment building, clutching his phone. He’s not sure which person to address first. 

He starts with the easiest. He calls Mr. Delmar, apologizes profusely, and tells him he was sick. Food poisoning, a nasty stomach bug from a recent Chinese takeaway order. When Mr. Delmar says he spoke to a concerned, but clueless Aunt May, Peter reigned in the urge to throw himself into oncoming traffic. So much food poisoning, he confessed, that he’d barely left the toilet in the past three days. No, he hadn’t been able to answer his phone.

Everyone’s uncomfortable with diarrhea.

The excuse works. Mr. Delmar tells him, generously, to take another day and make sure it was the Chinese food and not something contagious. Peter wonders how Mr. Delmar must feel, seeing Peter go from an overworking, punctual employee, to a just-meeting-his-hours, unreliable employee. It doesn’t seem like Mr. Delmar is losing respect for him, but Peter’s not sure if he could tell. He mostly seems understanding of everything Peter’s thrown at him, which makes Peter wonder why he was so hesitant to ask for time for himself all these years.

Aunt May’s banana date bread might have something to do with it.

Nope, not yet. Getting to that later.

Mr. Stark. What could he even say? Peter’s offended that Mr. Stark still consults the tracker in Peter’s suit. After Peter had gotten rid of the baby monitoring protocol back when Peter was battling the Vulture, Mr. Stark had reinstalled it when he appropriated the suit. Peter had been subjected to years of training under the guise of the Stark Internship to master each level of the suit’s amenities. They’re all unlocked to him now, but he tends to stray away from the suit’s advanced abilities. He likes the basics.

Although, Karen still routinely pushes “instant kill”.

But the GPS tracker had been replaced. Peter had thought he’d had enough of Mr. Stark’s confidence that Mr. Stark never looked at the tracker. That it was just a formality. Apparently, that’s not the case.

It makes Peter more depressed than it should.

What if Mr. Stark’s been checking the tracker this entire time? Or worse, what if he’d stopped monitoring the tracker a while back and he’s just started re-monitoring it because of the Stark Tower incident? Peter had earned enough of Mr. Stark’s confidence to be brought onboard for a murder investigation, but he’d lost it as soon as he’d failed? Or did Mr. Stark never have that kind of confidence in him at all? Peter hadn’t been selected to help because of his outstanding undercover abilities. Mr. Stark had been frank with him from the beginning: Peter had been the only option. He’d been the only available one with an identity masked enough to take on the challenge.

God, Mr. Stark, don’t look at him now.

Peter feeds Mr. Stark the same lie as he did Mr. Delmar. He feels awful about it, but he doesn’t regret it per se. He doesn’t want to lie to Mr. Stark. Lying to him is a worse breach of trust than Mr. Stark monitoring him via GPS. Peter might not have Mr. Stark’s undying confidence when it comes to crime fighting, but he and Mr. Stark have a special relationship. He knows Mr. Stark cares about him. So telling him that he had food poisoning when he’d really spent the last few days doing—what? _He doesn’t know_.

Nope, not dealing with that yet, either.

He finally reads through Aunt May’s messages. They’re so simple, with just enough pleading that Peter’s heart breaks. He calls her up and tells her he’s on his way over.

She sounds over the moon with joy.

Peter feels rotten.

-

Aunt May has apparently been getting into teas.

When Peter comes through the door, she enfolds him in a warm, perfume-y hug, and pulls him to the kitchen excitedly. There, she shoves him into a seat—the same seat he’d always sat in when he lived here—and shows off a Japanese teapot she’d bought on Amazon. She pulls out matching cups and the two of them partake in green tea.

“Peter, I’m so happy you came over today,” she says with a relieved smile. “Mr. Delmar called earlier this week to tell me you’d been missing work. I was worried sick when you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Peter can’t look her in the eye. He just stares at the green liquid in his cup, letting the steam hit in in the nose. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to not answer. I wasn’t feeling well. Think I ate some bad Chinese food.”

Aunt May makes a concerned, motherly noise that she’s had years of practice perfecting. She gets up to refill the teapot.

“Chamomile,” she proclaims with surety, “that’ll settle your stomach. Amelia from three doors down just gave me some sweet, English chamomile tea with lavender.”

Peter watches her putter around the kitchen with an ache in his chest. It feels just like when this was his home. When he was in high school and he’d come back from a long day. Aunt May would always try to meet him when he walked in, even though her busy schedule as a nurse hadn’t always allowed for it. It never mattered how stressed she was, she always wore a smile for him. And _had_ she been stressed. Their bills were too many. The cost of living for one adult and one growing boy always hit the high numbers, but she struggled every day trying to pay that in addition to Uncle Ben’s medical bills and debt. He had died when Peter was almost seven years old. Peter doesn’t remember that much about him, other than the kindness of his voice, but Aunt May had been forced to bulldoze through her mourning in order to keep them both living well.

Peter misses Aunt May all the time. She’s right. She was his aunt, his mother, and his friend all at once. But he doesn’t regret moving out. Besides the need for privacy and to divorce her from any ill-effects of Spider-Man, he had relieved a financial burden from her shoulders.

That’s just the truth of the matter. Her retirement check is enough for her to live comfortably on. Alone.

She babbles on about tea leaves and how Amelia is teaching her to read them. It’s a load of bologna, she says, but she has fun doing it anyway. She paints the plants she’s tasted in the tea. Peter smiles as she gestures to a lineup of canvases with flowers decorating them in watercolor and oil paints.

Aunt May’s always been talented.

They’d made a good team. She was the warmth and the color. Peter was the seed growing in her sunny wake.

_Was._

Why is Peter talking about her in the past tense when she’s right here?

“Do you think you want honey with the chamomile? I know the name is ‘sweet’ chamomile, but they mean that sparingly. I’ve got that cool honey you always like—the pine one, with the comb still inside of it?”

She turns bright eyes on him and holds up a jar.

“Hm? Some honey for my honey?” she laughs.

That’s probably why Peter likes crappy jokes. It’s all Aunt May’s fault.

It is the honey Peter always liked. Not because he was a honey fanatic, but because he’d always been fascinated with the geometric perfection of the honeycomb. A feat of natural engineering.

Of course, she remembers. She holds the honey out to him. Her hands are shaking. And now that Peter’s looking, he thinks her skin looks paler and thinner than it usually does. Her greying hair lays limply on her head. She’s still wearing her makeup and high-waisted jeans, but behind her glasses, he can see dark circles under her eyes. How is she? How does she feel?

Does it hurt?

Does cancer hurt? He can’t bring himself to ask her.

Peter smiles weakly at her, accepting the honey. Her small cheer rips a breathy laugh from him. This time, they sit down and partake in chamomile together.

After she spends a few long minutes first telling him the history of Japanese tea production, then gifting him with a small summary of how all of her neighbors are doing, they settle into a silence.

It should be comfortable.

It’s not.

Peter can’t look at her for too long. Every time his gaze extends past five seconds, he flicks his eyes away. He can’t meet her eyes either. When he does, he shifts in his seat and fidgets. He must look intensely restless.

Aunt May is frowning at him. “You’re allowed to talk about it,” she reminds him softly, before coughing and strengthening her voice. “We’re allowed to talk about it. I don’t mind. But if you’re not ready to or you just don’t want to, that’s okay too. Talking about things is good though.”

That makes Peter’s eyes water. “What are we supposed to say?” he asks helplessly. What could they possibly say? What could he say to her and what could she say to him that could possibly ameliorate either of their burdens?

She sighs, sipping her tea. “If you can’t think of what to say, then we’re not ready to say anything yet.”

Peter stares at his tea for another minute. When it comes out, he chokes through the question. “Are you in pain?”

She’s dying, he thinks. She’s dying right in front of him and neither of them can do anything about it. Her body has the decency to look overworked, but she doesn’t look as though she’s knocking on death’s door. She still looks like Aunt May. She doesn’t look like cancer.

He looks up as she holds his hand. Her smile is sincere. “I’ve been a little tired lately. But I don’t feel much different from usual. Sometimes, I cough too much, but the fits settle after a few minutes,” she muses. “Thank you for asking, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. Someone just tattoo the phrase on his forehead, so he can be spared the embarrassment.

“There’s no pain, Peter. Nothing hurts.” She winks at him. How does she seem so happy, still? Is it real? Is it genuine or is it a performance for Peter? “I’ve got myself in a support group for people like me.” People diagnosed with terminal cancer, she doesn’t say. “The symptoms vary for everyone. They change over time. Some people feel comfortable until the end, with some trouble breathing and headaches here and there. Others blackout, get moody, get tired. I think so far, I’m a lucky one. I haven’t experienced anything that stops me from my daily routines.”

Peter can’t say anything else. He can’t hear anymore. The voice in the back of his head tells him he’s being selfish, but he just can’t get anything else past his tongue.

They drink tea.

Despite his silence, she still is happy to have him there. She gets up after a while and brings her sketchbook over. He’s happy to pour over her new drafts with her. He even participates in the conversation with mild interest when she talks at length about a Polish art exhibit coming to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

When she goes to refill the teapot, she sits heavily down at the table with him as it boils. Peter sees that she’s breathing a bit harder than she should be for simply walking over to the stove.

It makes him so frightened he doesn’t know what to do.

He stares at her, reaching out to clasp her hands in his around the teacups. It’s the right move because she laughs merrily.

When her tinkling laughter dies down, she looks him over as though she’s mentally painting a picture of him.

“Can I ask you something, Peter?”

Peter gulps. He nods. “Sure, yeah, go ahead.” Anything.

She squeezes his hands and looks around the room. There’s a picture of him and her on the fridge. He’d won some science fair prize that he can’t really remember. She’s holding his medal and he’s holding her arm, giving the camera a toothy grin.

“You’re so quiet,” she starts. “Not since knowing about the cancer. I mean, over the last few years, you’ve gotten so quiet.”

Peter nods again. He’s not sure what to say to that. She continues, leaning forward searchingly.

“You used to bounce around this place like a jumping bean. I could never get you to keep still. You spoke a mile a minute about everything and anything. Then, you lost the Stark Internship. Oh, honey, I was crushed when you told me. But I knew you’d pull through, you’ve always been a fighter. You seemed alright. A bit somber, but alright. When you got it back, I thought you’d be bouncing all over the place again.”

The kettle whistles.

Folding her lips, Aunt May get up to retrieve it and drops two tea bags into their cups. Chamomile again. Then, she sits down and grabs his hands again.

“But you never did. It’s like one day you were chattering up a storm and the next, you were quiet. You stopped all of your clubs. You stopped talking to your friends. You never bothered even touring colleges.”

Peter wants to stop her there. None of those things need to be a weight on her back.

“I thought it was puberty or something. That you just needed privacy. Maybe you had a crush on someone, I don’t know,” she laughs a watery laugh that cuts into Peter’s throat. “I regret never asking. Why you got so quiet, that is. It’s a little late, but I’m asking now, Peter. Are you okay?”

Is he okay?

He’s given up his entire life and devoted it to a city that doesn’t know him. He has a job as a superhero that comes with no benefits other than a sense of duty and honor he can’t explain to anyone because if he does, he’ll put them in danger. He’s left his friends and family behind in hopes of protecting them from him and protecting himself from them. He works every day trying to pay for a pipe dream he’ll never make enough money to begin. And he tells himself it’s worth it. He tells himself it has to be worth it.

In the last few months, he was given a special job by his mentor and he failed to find justice. He failed to save the people he was supposed to save. He had _one_ job and he couldn’t do it, no matter how many hours he sacrificed to complete his mission.

He’s on a wayward road of dark self-realization that everything he’s worked for, all these identities that he’s built—none of them are who he wants to be. Each day that passes, he sees it more and more clearly.

Is he okay?

He’s met a man who he can see himself loving, but he can’t progress his relationship with him. He’s finally found someone he’s compatible with, who offers him safety and solace, happiness and reprieve—the one spark of light that he’s seen in years. And Peter can’t bring himself to share his life with him because he doesn’t know how to open up to him.

Is he okay?

Peter woke up this morning with three days of time lost to him. He can’t sleep at night and he is insatiably hungry. He’s chronically exhausted, bustling with nerves, feeling a craving for adrenaline that he can’t chase. He’s moody and every few minutes, he battles through a foreign emotion that he can’t recognize as his own.

Is he okay?

Just this morning, he watched video evidence that something horrific was done to him by a research facility that is so shrouded in shadows, it’s inaccessible to the public.

Is he okay?

His aunt has cancer and is withering away to nothing before him. The last of his family is dying and he can’t stop it.

No.

Peter is not okay.

Nothing about his life is okay right now. Everything is painful churning ball of cosmic energy waiting for the last drop of impetus, raring to explode. And Peter can’t tell anyone, not even the people closest to him because none of them have the full story. Mr. Stark, Aunt May, Wade. He can’t tell anyone of them the full story because he has to protect them all.

What good would telling any of them do? Telling Mr. Stark would force Peter to admit that he bit off more than he could chew. But the worst is that he knows Mr. Stark would just blame himself for not counseling Peter better. Telling Aunt May would thrust her into a world she’s not equipped to deal with. And no doubt terrify her and render her guilty for never picking up on Peter’s identity or his inner turmoil. She would see herself as a failure of a parent.

And Wade.

Peter just can’t tell Wade because he’s a spider that’s woven himself so deep in a web of lies and rose-tinted glass that he can’t. He just can’t. What’s the option? Tell Wade everything about himself and watch Wade realize Peter’s the real party bus, driving full speed ahead, beelining for a bridge in ruins. Even if Wade accepts everything—which Peter knows is the real truth, he will accept everything because he always does—to what end? For Peter to drag him into a world that doesn’t accept him? Peter is Spider-Man, in line with the Avengers. Wade is a mercenary who will never be accepted by them, no matter how similar they are. That’s the fine print. The world is cruel, and Wade’s been branded as “bad” in a world that sees things like Spider-Man does: black and white. Peter will not be the one to lift Wade from where he flourishes in the underground, up to a society that will shun him before he can defend himself.

No, Peter is not okay and Aunt May’s concerned face beckons him to unload. But he can’t.

So Peter holds her hands tightly and says the only thing he can, “I’m fine, Aunt May. I didn’t get quiet, I just grew up.”

They watch each other with unshed tears swimming in their eyes.

Peter must still be bad at lying.

Aunt May’s smile calls him out.

-

Peter leaves Aunt May’s apartment feeling worse than he did when he went in. He walks to the nearest subway and starts a route he could travel in his sleep. On the tube, his mind is restless. He feels like everyone is watching him like someone’s staring him down from behind with daggers in their eyes. But whenever Peter turns to look, no one is watching him. After a few glances behind him, the couple standing to the right of him shuffles further away from him. As they move, the brunette woman to Peter’s left follows suit to give Peter some distance. Paranoia is contagious.

Half an hour passes, it’s late, and Peter is walking into the community college. He walks straight up to the laboratory, types in the code, and looks around.

The college is deserted at this hour.

There are no night classes on Wednesdays. Mr. Stark’s team of researchers aren’t scheduled in the lab for the next two weeks. Peter had memorized their monthly schedule on autopilot when it was emailed out.

Peter pulls on nitrile gloves and begins pulling out pieces of equipment. There are a lot of things happening to him that he can’t control right now.

So he retrieves the USB Weasel gave him out of his pocket and plugs it into a lab Mac. He plays the footage over and over again. This isn’t a fairytale. Or a horror movie. It’s not _Paranormal Activity_ , no matter how Weasel jokes.

Peter pulls out a piece of spare paper and a pencil from a drawer and writes what he observes. A seizure. Disorientation. Amnesia. He ties it in with everything that he’s been feeling experiencing. Tiredness. Changeable mood. Memory loss. Increased appetite.

Peter’s not okay.

He’s sick.

It’s the only thing that makes sense. They must have been infecting the children with some sort of pathogen. A virus, a contagion. Something that was supposed to activate the children’s latent mutant genes. It hadn’t gone as planned. That’s why the children had died, strapped in their gurneys, looking like they’d perished in a fight.

What if they didn’t survive the initial seizures? Or what if they had, only to die in a fit later when they were sent to their cells? They must have been studying the lasting effects of the contagion on the cadavers, searching for clues on how to perfect their pathogen-delivery.

They’d released the contagion, intending to infect that little curly-haired boy. But it got to Peter first. It must have been a measured amount; enough to infect one person. Maybe a supervirus? One that had target specificity?

He can’t bring those children back to life, but he can try to find out why they had been so carelessly sacrificed.

Peter pricks his finger, collects a blood sample, and gets to work.

-

The next two days, he works hard to show Mr. Delmar how sorry he is for missing his shifts. He does his regular duties, plus chores he usually isn’t assigned. He uses his lunch break to clean out the stockroom, only pausing to give the homeless man outside a meal. Then, he stays two hours late, brushing off Mr. Delmar’s reassurances. He cleans everything with bleach until it’s shining so much it will reflect every health inspector in the city in high definition. He tries his best to immerse himself in work even though his mind is running a mile a minute—thinking about his blood samples in the lab, about the video footage, about Aunt May, about the _Life Foundation_ , about Mr. Stark, about Wade. They’re racing, cyclic thoughts that never seem to end, all overlaid on a shaky foundation of _itchiness_. Everything feels wrong at the same time that it feels fine. When he starts to think too much, his head aches in a beastly manner. So he works.

He feeds Murphy, changes his litter box, and helps Mr. Delmar close up. He answers Mr. Stark’s “how’s everything going, bud?” text with a convincing few lines of how he’s well and busy.

It makes him feel slightly better.

But patrol is where he fights for his sanity vehemently. He throws on his suit, greets Karen, and runs off into the night like a madman. He thinks he beats his usually tally, webbing criminals left and right. At one point on Thursday, ten after midnight, two policemen follow him to three different crime scenes to cuff up people up to no good.

The warmer air must be getting to everyone. Even the criminals are more active; shoplifters especially seem to be making a comeback.

On Friday night, he’s sitting on a roof in lower Queens, taking a quick break in between routes. He’s pushing himself harder than he means to, but it feels so good to work off his energy that he can’t help himself. The result is that he can feel his muscles thrumming, pulsating, already just a faint bit sore. The soreness will disappear soon enough, but Peter allows himself a timeout to sit on a ledge to enjoy the feeling. He swings his feet a little, admiring the height of the building, the dissipating adrenaline wafting off of him in a pleasant cloud that renders him inexplicably satisfied. He feels more centered than he has all week, with the exception of his time with Wade. Wade always makes him feel grounded; he’s like home-base in the game of Peter’s messy life. Peter takes the moment in, reveling in its peculiar peace.

His Spidey sense doesn’t go off. That’s why he jumps up like a foot in the air when he hears him.

“I just wanna let you know, the back of yo’ head is [ridiculous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eDqIKzmsWs),” a voice chirps behind him.

It’s so unexpected that Peter jumps. Actually jumps, body soaring into the air, then he promptly falls off of the roof. Legs right over the edge propelling him into a freefall. It’s only his instinct that saves him from plummeting to his untimely death.

He webs the top of building quickly, swinging himself closer to it so he can press his feet and hands against the bricks. He debates taking this as the blessing in disguise it is and leaving.

Wade has really, really bad timing.

He’s about to aim his web shooter at the building across the street, but he hears a frantic: “Oh, fuck! I just killed Spider-Man!”

And Wade sounds genuinely concerned. So Peter very cautiously crawls up to the roof and peeks over the ledge. Just enough that he can see Deadpool.

“Fuck! [Fuck a tit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a04oSI3pz_A)!” His eyes as wide as golf balls as he stands cemented in place. “Fuck a tit hard!” Distress written all over him, with his hands pressed to his cheeks in shock.

Peter watches as Deadpool looks around nervously.

“Son of a bitch, I know I’m a smooth criminal, but I didn’t even breathe at you. Are you okay?” Deadpool shouts, sounding alarmed. “[Annie, are you okay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_D3VFfhvs4), are you okay, Annie?”

Peter feels a lot of things right now. Panic is the frontrunner. He still doesn’t want Deadpool to meet Spider-Man. He’s _still_ not ready for that fallout. But, as is usual in his time with Wade, Peter finds himself biting back a smile at the older man’s antics.

He fails at holding back a small huff of laughter. It’s nearly soundless. But Deadpool hears it, perks up, and spies where Peter is peeking over the ledge like a creeper. Deadpool sighs rather vivaciously, a hand over his heart in a position that Peter’s seen him strike many times before.

“Shitballs. Don’t do that to me, Spidey,” he chides. “This old geezer isn’t looking have a heart attack anytime soon.”

If he had a heart attack, wouldn’t he just heal from it immediately? But that wouldn’t solve the problem, would it? If Wade really had grounds for a heart attack, like arterial stenosis, would his body fix it right away or would he be doomed to continue having a heart attack over and over again, healing constantly but not correcting the root of the issue?

Peter tilts his head.

God, that’s a morbid thought. Peter feels uncomfortable with it. No more grease for Wade. He ate like nine quesadillas on Wednesday night during their _Supernatural_ marathon. Wade’s always on his tail about his instant food diet. Well, now it’s going to be Peter’s turn to introduce some spinach into their meals.

Deadpool catches the head tilt and, funnily enough, mirrors him.

They regard each other in silence until Deadpool breaks it like he can’t take it anymore. “You’re a quiet, little dormouse, aren’t you?”

Peter tries his best not to twitch at that. Thanks to Weasel, any reference to a mouse has Peter jumping to attention.

Deadpool raises his hands up in a universal sign of peace. It takes Peter a minute to remember that he doesn’t see Peter. He sees Spider-Man, who he’s never met before. Spider-Man would be wise to be on his guard around Deadpool. Wade probably thinks Spider-Man is afraid of him. He’s trying to not be intimidating.

Dressed in leather, bound with katanas, and strung up with guns.

Nice try, Wade. A for effort. F for execution.

Deadpool approaches him in very slow steps. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your meditation, but I just wanted to say hello. Hello, from the other side. Hello, is it me you’re looking for?”

Such a bad singer.

Peter clamps down on his lips. He can’t answer. He doesn’t have a voice changing device except for Interrogation Mode. Which just makes him sound like a jerk. He also can’t activate that without commanding Karen verbally, which would give him away in a second. Wade’s been around Peter in almost every emotional situation. He definitely knows what Peter sounds like. He won’t be fooled because of a mask.

And considering that, he knows Peter’s body quite well too. And his mannerisms and body language, right? Wade would have to be really distracted to not recognize Peter, even if he’s cloaked from head to toe in the world’s greatest disguise. Peter needs to be careful to hold himself differently.

“My name’s Deadpool,” he continues with another step forward. “It’s spelled like Deadpool, but it’s pronounced ‘Deadpool’,” Peter doesn’t point out that there was no difference between Wade’s introductions of either his written or spoken name. “I’m a fan of Taco Bell’s double cheesy gordita crunch, LARP-ing under the moonlight, and long walks on the beach. But not on the Jersey shore because I don’t fancy stepping on [syringes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syringe_Tide).”

LARP-ing? Wade definitely does not LARP. Peter hasn’t seen any LARP gear in his house. And Peter knows what it looks like because Ned had gone through a phase.

“Are you gonna come back on the roof, Spidey?” Deadpool asks, “Despite the prophecy, you don’t actually have to go down the waterspout.”

He takes another step closer, but Peter jerks. He’s too close.

Deadpool halts immediately, tilting his head to the other side in consideration.

“Okay, okay, not coming any closer. Forgive me for not waving a white flag, but I don’t feel like losing my boxers today,” he says moving his hands to his hips. “You know, Spidey, you’re kind of a badass, swinging from building to building with that sticky tac shit. Flossy, [flossy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0SyUgw98tE). Very glamorous.”

Peter absolutely resents that. It is not sticky tac. It’s a spider silk mimic enriched polymer that he’d engineered himself. As a teenager. In a laboratory.

Yes, it really is badass. Wade should have stopped the compliment there.

In a fit of what must be insanity—or in an unconscious demonstration of Peter’s true comfort level with Wade—Peter raises a quick hand and shoots a web straight at Wade’s chest. It lands with a splat on his suit, right above his heart. It’s not meant to hurt him or as an attack. It is just Peter being the little shit he always is in Wade’s presence.

But as soon as he does it, Peter wishes he could take it back. What was he thinking? Throwing a web at Deadpool? The man doesn’t know it’s Peter. He doesn’t know Spider-Man. What if he thinks Peter’s trying to engage him in combat?

Peter will literally jump off this building right now.

Deadpool, however, squeals like a frightened pig when the web flies at him, watching it dumbly as it slaps onto his suit. He just watches with his hands still on his hips, making no move to grab a katana.

“Ugh!” he groans, reaches out to poke the web. He pinches it between two fingers and pulls it. The web has great elasticity, if Peter may say so. It snaps back to Wade’s chest with a _smush_ sound. “Spidey [bogies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbxMy9T49fM),” he exclaims in disgust. “Do you ejaculate this as well?”

Rude!

Deadpool stands there, tall and hulking, looking like an infant just vomited curdled milk all over his favorite shirt.

Peter snorts.

The sound of it is loud enough that it has Peter smacking a hand over his mouth as though that might take it back.

Deadpool glances up at him. Then he laughs. It’s one of Wade’s full-bodied laughs that send tingles down Peter’s spine. Even with a web on his chest, Peter notes that Wade looks as great as he always does in his costume.

That leather is really tight.

How does he not sweat constantly? Honestly, he should just take it off.

Slow down, Parker.

“Dude, you totally put the pedal to the metal last time we ran into each other. Burned that rubber on me, [Charlie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Dc4n8EuK78),” Deadpool says rubbing his chin. “Normally, I’d be downright vicious at someone snubbing me like that, but after that little giggle? Professor Deadpool is gonna give you a hall pass.”

Peter stops laughing abruptly. He hadn’t realized he’d been laughing along with Wade. Also. Is Wade implying that Spider-Man’s laugh is pleasing enough that he will drop his residual anger from when Spider-Man fled from his approach last time they met? What the fuck?

Peter’s inappropriate response to that is to get pissed off and irrationally jealous. Of himself.

Is Wade flirting with Spider-Man? Why is Wade flirting with Spider-Man when he should be at home, flirting with Peter? Wade flirts with Peter and Peter only. He’s not supposed to flirt with anyone else. Wade’s attention should be three million percent laser-focused on Peter. Wade takes care of Peter. Peter will not have him gallivanting around, flirting with the world and vulnerable to someone taking him away.

Peter twitches, the magnitude of his own possessiveness blindsiding him.

“Whoopsies,” Deadpool sings, “No homo, Spidey. I just meant that you don’t seem like an asshole like your first impression implied. Anyway, as much as I wish this was a social call, it’s not. I was wondering if you could help me out.”

Peter does another head tilt at that. What could Spider-Man possibly help Deadpool with?

When Wade reaches for a pocket, Peter peeks more of his head over the ledge.

Deadpool waves him off, “Not to worry! Not going for anything sharp or pointy. Just getting a piece of paper. Keep calm and Spidey on.”

He pulls out a neatly folded paper and holds it out in his hand toward Peter.

Peter stares at it.

“I know hanging on roofs is your ish, so I was just wondering if you’d seen this guy on any rooftops in Queens in the past three weeks?” Deadpool waves the paper.

Seriously? Is Deadpool looking for help with a target? Because Peter’s not going to confirm the whereabouts of a potential murder victim.

“Um, Spidey?” Deadpool asks in confusion. “You with me, bro? Not much of a talker are you—oh, sugar biscuits. Do you not speak English? Please, tell me you speak English and I haven’t been speaking to myself this entire time. That’s a new low for me.”

Peter clamps down on another laugh.

“He doesn’t speak English,” Deadpool flaps an arm and looks off to the side like he’s talking to an invisible cameraman, before regarding Peter again. “Okay, no English? No problem. Listen, I’ve traveled every road in this here land, so let’s try some [Duolingo](https://www.duolingo.com/), then, m’kay? Bear with me here. I never used [Rosetta Stone](https://www.rosettastone.com/), but I must admit, I’ve got a knack for picking up languages, [Hooked on Phonics](https://www.hookedonphonics.com/) style. You’re lucky [I’ve been everywhere](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ov4epAJRPMw), man.”

“ _Ты_ _говоришь_ _по_ _-_ _русски_?” he tries, to no avail. What language is that? Is Wade speaking Russian? Why does it sound so good? “Are we acquainted enough to speak in the informal? Fucking complicated. No? Still not getting me?”

Peter tilts his head to watch as Wade gestures erratically, then scratches his chin pensively.

“ _Parlez-vous le français canadien?_ _İ_ _ngilizce konu_ _ş_ _ur musunuz? Türkçe bilmiyorum._ ”

Oh, God. What is going on? Where is the Wade-off button? Peter is frantic to cease Wade’s multilingual babble for the two concise reasons: his polyglot identity makes Peter feel both inadequately educated in comparison and unreasonably aroused. He still can’t bring himself to speak though, so instead, he holds a hand out for the paper.

Wade stops talking and very astutely considers Peter. “Spidey, did you just play me for a fool? How you gonna play a hoe like that?”

Peter shakes his head negatively and waves his hand with a bit of impatience. While he can stay on plastered to the side of the building all night, he’d rather not. He’s supposed to be patrolling. He wants to finish his patrol because he wants to go see Wade.

Isn’t this a conundrum. Welcome to Bizarro World.

With an impressed huff, Wade finally walks over to the ledge and hands Peter the paper.

Peter tries not to drop himself again with Wade so close by. Instead, he looks at the paper and sees Adric Johnson staring up at him for the second time this week. Now it makes sense. Wade isn’t asking Peter to confirm a target for kill. He’s asking Spider-Man, as the resident neighborhood lurker, if he’s seen a man he believes is missing. It’s smart, actually. Ask a superhero who patrols at night if he’s seen anything sketchy.

Peter is sad to report no news to Wade. He honestly wishes he could help, if only so he could help Wade finish this stupid favor. He doesn’t like Wade being in Weasel’s debt. Wade doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal, but Peter thinks it’s like a kid who has grown up with guns in the house. They don’t see it’s a problem. See a gun in the room, eat, sleep, drink, laugh with a gun in the room and it’s easy to forget the danger they pose. Wade’s been around Weasel so long, he doesn’t see how dangerous Weasel can be.

Peter shakes his head at Wade, handing the paper back to him. His eyes catch on the chibi drawings on the back of it. Despite the curious situation, he finds himself in, he smiles upon seeing them again. His smile isn’t visible through the mask, but Wade must feel how Peter’s attention fixes on the drawings.

Deadpool laughs, “They’re cute right?”

Peter nods in agreement, giving Wade a thumbs up. A compliment to his drawing skills.

“Nah, nah, no bravo for me,” Deadpool bats his hand a safe distance from Peter’s like he’s waving the thumbs up into the wind. “A very adorable acquaintance of mine did all of the hard work. I just drew lines. Any idiot with a crayon could do that. But my baby colored inside the lines like a fucking pro. That shit ain’t easy.”

Peter’s heart pounds.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you finally, but I’ve gotta get gone while the night is still young. You know what Dolly [says](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmgRPQWZWXc), Spider-mime, folks like me on the job from nine to five. What a way to make a living!” Deadpool folds the paper up carefully and puts it back into a pocket.

He backs up from the ledge at a casual pace, then heads toward a fire escape on the other side of the roof. “Anywho, thanks for your help, Spidey! I owe ya one, eh? Here’s a tip, then. Stay safe on these rooftops, y’hear? Word is that here there be ninjas.”

Deadpool throws Peter a jaunty wave and disappears from sight.

Peter sighs, relaxing. That had been a lot easier than he thought it would be. Peter heads home in much better spirits than when he’d left. It’s late and Peter begrudgingly realizes that Deadpool is probably on the prowl for the rest of the foreseeable night, hunting for Johnson. He probably won’t have the chance to catch up with Wade tonight. So when he gets to his apartment, he sheds his suit, grabs the fuzzy sweatshirt Wade loaned him a while back, and nosedives into the bed.

-

 _Miss ur face_  
_cum hang w/ me? or jus cum ;) w/ me_

That’s the text message Peter wakes up to on Saturday morning. He should be tossing the phone into the wall or willing it to spontaneously combust into a pile of rubbish because Peter hates waking up early when he doesn’t have to. Saturday has become a sacred day. No work means more sleep. Wade’s text comes in at the obnoxious hour of seven in the morning. The text alert is on the lowest volume, but as soon as it chimes, Peter’s sensitive hearing picks it up and he’s awake in a breath.

Peter can’t find it in himself to be angry though. Groggy and surly? Absolutely. But not angry. It’s the first Wade has ever asked him to hang out. Besides the time they went to Rosa’s, Wade has always waited for Peter to propose a time or date for their meetups.

This goes from a sour moment to a pleasant one rather quickly.

 _I’d be happy to._  
_Where and when?_

 _holy fuck_  
_wats wrong?_

For a moment, Peter is frightened that Wade knows something. That Peter spent so much time at the lab starting the tests to determine what pathogen he picked up at Stark Tower. But that can’t be right. Peter has been feeling off every now and then for a while, yet all of his symptoms are pretty inward, minus the little time jump thing that he is completely ignoring because how does one actually handle that in real life? Wade couldn’t have detected the extent of his symptoms besides what Weasel told him. He knows something is wrong, but not what. Peter feels horrible for hiding it from him. However, he knows that he needs to find concrete evidence of his illness—not a video clip that could have been edited for all they know—before he includes Wade in his investigation.

_What do you mean?  
Nothing._

_Y r u awake?_  

_Because you texted me?_

_:( :( :’(_  
_I woke u up_  
_im so sry bb_  
_plse dont behead me_  
_i hav much 2 live 4_  
_incl ur ass_

_Haha. You’re so funny.  
Where are we hanging?_

_im as funny as i am sexi_  
_i feel rlly bad now_  
_i thought u wud just c my txt latr_  
_lyk in da afternoon_  
_wen ur not a gremlin anymore_

Peter rolls his eyes at the phone. He’s not _that_ dreadful in the morning. Doesn’t Wade see how nice he’s being right now?

_Does that mean I should go back to sleep?_

Peter sends it before he can stop. No, no! If he leaves it at that, Wade is going to be a gentleman and say yes. Peter has no doubt that Wade will advise Peter to go right back to sleep. Peter loves his bed as much as the next guy, but he’s awake now. And all he wants to do is see Wade, especially because Wade asked. Peter knows it’s idiotic. They’ve spent so much time together already. But answering when Wade calls feels extra important. Like somehow, because Wade asked to see him, this particular visit is different.

_I don’t think I can now that I’m up, tbh._

_let me make it up 2 u_  
_ill take u 2 ur fav place_  
_the happiezt place on earth_

_Disneyland?_

_i waz thinkn SBUX_  
_but I cn get plane tickets 2_  
_no fuckn teacup ride tho_  
_i throw up rlly eazily_  
_not even 4 ur pretty doe eyed face_  
_not even if u bat the lashez_  
_…k mayb if u bat the lashes_  
_Omg wat if I lose u on its a small world_  
_??? O.O_

Off button, off button? Where does it live? Peter turns the full force of his glare at the phone screen. He’s really not that short. Well alright, maybe next to Wade, he really _is_ that short. But that’s only because Wade is abnormally large. Okay, maybe not abnormally large, just very big. Very tall, dark, and handsome. Very tall, muscular, and handsome. That Deadpool suit clings to him sinfully. Peter groans softly at the wandering thought, hips pushing into the mattress and a thrill running up his spine.

He’s allowed to daydream about his own boyfriend. It’s not entirely pathetic. A usual morning in includes Peter waking up and his mind going straight to Wade. Perhaps, he spends an excessive amount of time picturing him and Wade in numerous lecherous positions on varying surfaces. Maybe he spends longer than he should with his face pressed into a pillow and the blankets over his head, jerking it to a fantasy of reenacting every kink he’s ever read about and how perfectly Wade fits into every one that Peter drools over.

Fine, it’s a little pathetic. Sue him. It’s the morning and he’s not playing with a full deck of cards yet.

_You’re a jerk._

_doz that mean ur not meetn me @ SBUX?_  
_:( cuz I already_ hav _a table_  
_so u_ cn _sit all cute n grumpy w/ ur frap_  
_my_ lil _mutant crab_

_Just send me the pin._

_aye aye captn_

_I can’t hear[you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9L4AseD-aA)…_

_ngh u r perfection_  
_my queen B_  
_Shall I compare thee to a summer’s[day](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/shall-i-compare-thee-summers-day-sonnet-18)?_  
_Thou art more lovely and more temperate._

_OMG, did you just learn how to type properly?_

_psh bb I hav sum class k_  
_1 doez not simply_  
_write Shakespeare w/ ch4tsp34k_

 _Thank you, Boromir._  
_I’ll remember that when we walk into Mordor._

 _dnt wry frodo_  
_i will show u da way 2 mordor ;)_  
_my lil hobbit_

_Really, Wade?_

_ur smol_  
_ur feet r kinda big_

_They are not!_

_dnt b defensive_  
_itz cute_  
_u kno wat dey say bout bois w/ big feet_  
_hubba hubba_

_You’re not about to say what I think you are._

_im not sayn anythang @ all_  
_othr than itz tru O///O_

_What is “O///O”?_

_mah blushy emoji_  
_feel free 2 brrow it_  
_ya kno since u always blushn_  
_so pretty 4 me ;) bb boi. :P_

 _I need to get ready._  
_Or I’ll end up meeting you when Sbux closes._

 _hey. totes related_  
_cuz we talkn LOTR_  
_do u lyk rings????_  
_wats ur ring size?_  
_4 scientific purpozes._

 _I have no idea._  
_Stop trying to buy me things._

 _i ttly waznt…_  
_u dnt kno me..._

Peter spends the next fifteen minutes trying to shower, brush his teeth, and get dressed while juggling his phone. Wade’s trying to convince him to let Dopinder drive him because it’s cold outside today. Peter vehemently refuses. Mostly because he’s reminded of the fact that Wade definitely has a tab going on with Dopinder and Peter doesn’t want to cost him any more money. He knows Wade’s already going to pay for their Starbucks. Plus, Peter’s not out of shape. He can walk just fine. He may be sick, but his legs work. It’s not that cold out, actually. Peter can barely feel the New York wind-tunnel at all today, but that might be because he threw on the same hoodie he slept in over his t-shirt and jeans. 

Wade reluctantly agrees, asks for Peter’s estimated time of arrival, and tells him he’ll have Peter’s drinks ready for when he gets there. Drinks, as in plural.

Peter snorts. Wade is ridiculous. Peter wants to say that Wade buys him two drinks because he genuinely loves pampering Peter. That seems very much true. But Peter might have also noticed that Wade sneakily watches him suck on the straws of his frappuccinos with too keen of an interest for it to be so innocent.

It's cute that he thinks he’s being covert about it though.

-

The Starbucks is crowded with people getting their caffeine fix in before the day officially begins. It’s so full that Peter has to fight his way through the door to get in properly and around the queue of people waiting for service.

As soon as he does though, he hears a warm voice call to him.

“Baby! Stage right.”

Peter, eyes still droopy from sleep, feels his lips tick upward and he turns to see Wade amongst the crowd. He did find a table; a small one with a booth and a chair seat tucked into the corner of the café. He has his phone in one hand and a newspaper in the other. On the table, there are four drinks: two frappuccinos with Peter’s name on them and two hot coffees. As Peter approaches, he notes that one of the hot coffees seems drained. Wade looks chipper. Peter’s intrigued to find him in a pair of jeans instead of his usual sweatpants. Nevertheless, he wears a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.

Peter wonders how long he’s been here.

When he gets to the table, Wade stands from his seat in the booth. He grabs Peter’s limp hand, presses a soft kiss to it, and tugs Peter so that he falls right into the warmth left behind from Wade’s body. Then Wade drags the chair around the table so that it’s closer to Peter and that he still has an uninterrupted view of the entire café.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Wade coos, pushing Peter’s drink toward him.

Peter thinks he grunts in response. He reaches for his drink blindly, bring it to his mouth to drink it on autopilot as he stares at Wade. A moment of silence ensues as Peter stares at Wade and Wade responds in kind, gifting Peter with a pleased look.

“Mhm?” Peter asks wordlessly.

Wade just grins. “I like your hoodie,” he comments, reaching out to playfully poking at one of the drawstrings. “It fits you perfectly.”

Peter gulps his drink in response, brain freeze catching up to him steadily. “It doesn’t fit me at all.”

Laughing and resting his chin on his fist, Wade replies, “That’s because we don’t wear the same size. But don’t let that stop you, please. I need to start wearing button-down shirts, so you can put them on and look like every yaoi manga that has ever been drawn.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Peter mutters around his straw. How does Wade fit all of this random knowledge into his head? Peter’s brain would explode if he knew half of the genres Wade does.

“You don’t need to, baby boy, just repeat after me,” Wade says, leaning forward and looking at Peter seriously.

“Mhm?” Peter furrows his eyebrows at Wade’s far too solemn face. It foreshadows tricks. Peter will not be fooled.

“Blink real pretty for me with those big eyes, like you always do, and say: put,” Wade says, then stops, gesturing a hand when Peter blinks back at him, prompting him to parrot his words.

Peter doesn’t like where this is going. Suspicious, but indulgent due to morning drowsiness, he complies. “Put,” he repeats slowly, feeling like he’s falling into a trap.

“P-put in me, [senpai](https://me.me/market?meme_id=15991541).”

Peter’s flat face cannot say enough.

Wade starts howling anyway, slamming a hand on the table and rattling it under their drinks. Peter glares at him with good-natured derision. Wade is literally so sleazy. So extra. He doesn’t even know how he loves this man.

The casual thought catches Peter off guard, energizing him with a zing of awareness. Wade’s just laughing like a lunatic across from him, lips stretched into the biggest smile, scarred face lighting up with easy delight. God, Peter loves this man. It’s not frightening to admit, not like he thought it would be. In the safety of his mind, he repeats it to himself: he loves Wade. There’s no need to sit here and recount all of the reasons why. They’re obvious. So instead, he allows himself to feel the rush of affection head on. It washes over him like a heated blanket.

Finally, Wade’s laughter dies down to a tamable level. Still wrought with chuckles, he reaches out to clasp Peter’s free hand where it sits on the table. “I’m sorry I woke you up, angel,” he apologizes with a frown. “I know you need more z’s than me.” He seems sincerely regretful.

Peter shrugs, powerless to do anything but smile back at him. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. Mornings suck, but I like being with you.”

He’s glad he let his filter go because the expression that captures Wade’s face is a privilege to witness. Peter’s heart actually can’t handle how simple it is to make Wade happy. Peter can’t do more than blush under the magnitude of Wade’s gaze. In a fit of shyness, he ducks his eyes and busies himself with playing with Wade’s hand.

Wade’s lift his hand and Peter’s, carrying them both as he reaches out to brush the pad of his index finger under Peter’s left eye.

“Long night, baby?” Wade asks curiously and, if Peter isn’t mistaken, with an air of concern.

Peter shrugs again. Long night? Definitely. Patrolling always makes for a long night. Wrapping up the baddies and running into Deadpool? An unusual patrol. Certainly tiring. Remembering last night’s events has Peter peeking up at Wade.

“I was just up late,” he says, “Did you have a long night? You drank an entire cup of coffee before I even got here.”

Wade nods with annoyance. “Yeah, I was up doing Weasel’s bidding. The Dark Lord is never pleased unless I’m pulling overtime.”

“Oh,” Peter feigns surprise. Relatively well, he assumes, because Wade doesn’t give him _that_ look. The man reaches for his coffee instead to take a sip. “Were you checking out that missing guy?”

Wade hums, swallowing. “Yup, lovely, Johnson again. Gotta put this case to rest or I’m never going to sleep. It ain’t looking too bright, I hope Sunny’s got his last will and testament written in something other than an Etch-a-Sketch.”

“So you were looking for Johnson?” Peter is quick to take another sip of his frappuccino, trying to look relatively uninterested in the conversation as not to draw attention to himself.

Hot damn, Peter must have actually improved at this. Or maybe Wade is just paying too much attention to his coffee to scrutinize Peter.

Wait a minute.

Peter releases the straw from his teeth and huffs at Wade, who’s taking an indulgent swig of his coffee with closed eyes. He looks sexy. Peter will never say it aloud for fear of sounding like a two-cent fuckboy, but Wade does look languidly attractive with his neck bent back, Adam’s apple bobbing with his movements.

Not paying attention to Peter.

Peter releases Wade’s hand and snatches the coffee right from his grasp. Without hesitance, he brings it to his mouth. He knows before he swallows that it has caramel in it, just from the powerful aroma. The sweet freak in Peter would normally be throwing a party at the opportunity to suck down some more sugar, but he perversely finds himself more interested in the wet mark left behind by Wade’s mouth. So he licks the plastic rim after he samples the coffee.

Wade looks dumbstruck. Peter feels irrationally satisfied with how Wade licks his own lips, eyes now fully focused on Peter.

“Did you not find him then?”

“Huh?” Wade replies absently.

“Johnson,” Peter repeats with a smirk. “You haven’t found him then, if you think Sunny’s got it bad?”

At the mention of Sunny, Wade seems to break out of his reverie. He frowns with distaste, shuddering. “I would say I feel bad, but my nose might grow. No leads on Johnson, not even in his apartment. Just some bullet shells and spoiling olive loaf. I was doing my best Steve impression, looking for paw prints all over Queens, but [Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3iDYSd5EZM) was nowhere to be found. I’m telling you, he made like a tree and left.”

The wordplay doesn’t quite work when it’s in the past tense.

Peter is a terrible person. He’s far more interested in what Wade’s lasting impressions of Spider-Man are, rather than Johnson’s whereabouts. Wade’s never once mentioned Spider-Man. He probably never had a reason to, Peter thinks. But now, they’ve formally met, Spider-Man and Deadpool that is. Deadpool had seemed kind enough to Spider-Man. Maybe even a bit playful—but that was Wade’s usual personality. What does Deadpool think about Spider-Man?

“Did you run into anyone?”

Wade lifts a helpless hand at the question, clearly thinking it random.

Ah. There are those moves like [Jagger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEPTlhBmwRg). The frap must be kicking in now if Peter’s back to his foot-in-mouth self.

“You know,” Peter rushes to try to save himself. “You’re just out walking on the streets at night, you must run into some real…unsavory characters.”

Wade raises a nonexistent eyebrow at him. “Sweetheart, I’m a mercenary, not a hooker. I’m just out doing my job and if anyone sees me, they tend to have enough brains to walk the other way. It’s not Donna Summer’s _[Bad Girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd-Kv1iFnB0)_ at night, babe. People are mostly at home, asleep. Toot, toot. Yeah, beep, beep.”

Peter’s blush makes a reappearance. “I know that.” Peter deserved that answer, actually.

“Unless you ever run into me after dark, that is.” Then, Wade leans toward him flirtatiously and flutters his eyelids spastically. “Hey mister, do you wanna spend some time? I got what you what, you got what I need. I’ll be your naughty, bad girl and lick it like a [lollipop](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IH8tNQAzSs). I wanna lick the wrapper, baby. This shawty wanna thug.”

“Oh, my God. Stop.” Peter’s cheeks are going to fall off of his face. He chugs the rest of Wade’s coffee in retaliation, fervently glancing around the café to make sure no one is getting an earful of Wade’s filth.

“We don’t have to wait until nightfall, sweetness. What about now? Actually, it’s getting [hot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeZZr_p6vB8) in here. I feel like busting loose and I feel like touching you,” Wade cackles, a hand fingering the zipper on his sweatshirt enticingly like he’s about to pull it down. “I am getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off.”

A man walking by their table trips a little, nearly face-planting with his pumpkin spice latte. Peter jumps a little as he stumbles, his hand grabbing Wade’s to stop him from stripping in the middle of Starbucks just because he’s a troll on the inside. While Peter would normally be intrigued to see a little strip tease from Wade, he does not want it to be showcased in public where they’ll surely get arrested for indecency.

“Shush!” Peter hisses, “That’s enough! No more crude songs, no more singing. Drop it.”

“Like it’s hot?” Wade looks back at him with big eyes, biting his lip in what looks like a painful manner. After a second, he makes a strangled sound.

“What?” Peter whispers heatedly, still keeping his voice down as the guy recovers his drink, cursing at the boiling hot coffee that fell on his hands.

“When the pimp’s in the crib, [ma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaCodgL9cvk)….”

Peter looks back at Wade’s pinched face. He looks like he so desperately tried his best to comply with Peter’s wishes for silence but failed epically. Peter can’t help but snicker at him. It sets Wade off and then, they’re both laughing obnoxiously with no hope of not attracting the evil eye from the rest of the Starbucks customers.

“Seriously, Wade, we’re in public!” Peter gasps windedly around laughter.

“Oh please,” Wade rolls his eyes and waggles his eyes at Peter. “We’ve done a lot worse in public. Need I remind you of what we’ve gotten up to in between buildings. Or is bumping uglies in alcoves considered publicly acceptable behavior?”

Peter gives a strangled squeak, hurriedly shushing Wade again, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening in.

“I will not be silenced!” Wade cries theatrically. “Let the basic bitches spill their lattes! If I want to talk about how freaky we get, then I’m gonna shout it out loud. [Bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icZ-OlVSvb4)[ı](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icZ-OlVSvb4)[r bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icZ-OlVSvb4)[ı](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icZ-OlVSvb4)[r](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icZ-OlVSvb4)! And that’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh [I like it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q3svW8PM_jc).”

As Peter tries to get ahold of himself, Wade just grabs Peter’s hand and kisses it again. All sweet and endearing, like he always is.

“C’mon, darling,” he says, guiding Peter to stand up. “We might be overstaying our welcome.” Wade does a little head jerk and points with his chin to where a barista is frowning at them pointedly for disturbing the usual morning depression with cheer.

Peter snorts but stands. He hands his untouched frappuccino to Wade for safekeeping and gathers the empty cups in his arms. He may or may not have finished Wade’s drink with that one sip.

“That was good coffee,” Peter says casually, looking up at Wade. “What was that?” Peter still doesn’t like coffee, but Wade seems to have a penchant for sweet coffees that have no trace of bitterness in them.

Wade pouts. “It _was_ a coconut milk mocha macchiato with extra caramel drizzle and one pump of pumpkin spice syrup. Before someone chugged it.”

Peter looks innocently up at him. Without thinking too much about it, he—how had Wade put it before? Oh, yes. He blinks real pretty for him with his big eyes. What poetic rot. Peter wonders what Wade really sees when he looks at Peter. He doesn’t really get how Wade finds Peter adorable or attractive at all. Peter’s always been dorky and awkward. It’s his trademark.

Wade rubs a hand over Peter’s messy hair. “It’s just your luck that you snagged yourself a sharer and a carer.” Then, he grabs his phone, puts it in his pocket, and tucks the newspaper under his armpit. “You wanna come to the condo, baby boy? The peeps are sending a surveyor to assess the island before they install the new granite. I need to be there in an hour and a half.”

Nodding, Peter smiles at Wade, already heading to the trash can by the door. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Wade follows him, but they get separated in the hoard of people. Besides not being able to afford the overpriced drinks, Peter tends to avoid Starbucks if he’s strong enough. He hates how crowded they are, especially in the mornings or at lunch. When he finally reaches the trash can, he sighs in relief, throwing the empty cups away. As he does, he takes note of the name written on Wade’s cups and immediately feels another wave of laughter come over him. Eager to call Wade out, then whine about how many people there are, Peter pivots to reunite with Wade. He turns straight into a woman instead.

It happens very quickly. Peter bumps right into her, sending her back a few inches. Luckily, her drinks are balanced in a cardboard holder, but she yelps in shock anyway at the unexpected disturbance. Peter’s already apologizing before he can think about it.

“Oh, my goodness, I am so, so sorr—” And then Peter looks up at her. She looks very much like every other businesswoman in Starbucks, dressed in New York black. Caramel hair slicked back into a ponytail, green eyes decorated with eyeliner, and a Blackberry in hand. Something in the back of Peter’s head flares red lights.

He’s seen this woman before.

Scratch that, he’s seen this woman _many times_ before, hasn’t he? With a tendril of paranoia growing, Peter begins to feel a burst of adrenaline. The fight or flight reflex is triggered in his brain, but something is telling him to proceed with caution. He struggles to stop himself from doing anything incriminating or outlandish, like webbing himself to the ceiling and crawling away to Wade.

The woman looks startled by him, then she smiles kindly. The smile grates on Peter’s nerves. It looks fake and strained, he thinks, like she’s uninterested—cold and absent like she doesn’t actually care what Peter is saying. _She’s not as nice as they said she was._

“It’s quite alright.”

Peter nods, internally shaking himself. “Sorry, there’s just a lot of people in here. I didn’t see you there.” He gives her a twisted smile that hopefully passes as an embarrassed one and finally, Wade appears by her shoulder. Peter locks eyes with him, holding out a hand to him quickly like a child might to their assigned adult on a field trip.

He sees the instant Wade becomes alert.

The man smiles anyway, takes Peter’s hand, and threads their fingers together. Then, he’s steering Peter out the door and onto the sidewalk outside. They get three feet away from the Starbucks before Peter’s panting like a racehorse, clutching Wade’s hand too tightly.

“What’s wrong?” Wade asks, looking down at him worriedly.

Peter breathes in shakily, squeezing Wade’s hand as they continue to walk. He has to know if he’s right. He can’t be this crazy. It’s just not possible. Making up his mind, Peter grabs the newspaper from Wade’s armpit, dislodges it, and opens it in front of him like he’s about to read something. Then he purposefully drops it, letting the wind carry it just behind his feet.

“Oops,” he mutters, releasing his grip on Wade. “I’ll get that.”

Peter turns and bends down, grabbing the newspaper from the sidewalk where it lies in a heap. As he does, he looks carefully up through his bangs. And there she is, just a few feet behind them, artfully hidden behind a string of people.

He’s not crazy.

Hurriedly, Peter stands, folding the paper up briskly. He shoves it under his own arm, returns to Wade, and presses into the man’s side. Wade’s looking down at him sharply, no amusement anywhere to be found. Peter nudges him, hand coming up to clench at Wade’s bicep. He pulls Wade forward, cajoling him into walking again.

“Peter,” Wade says, voice low and demanding.

Peter nods just a bit to show he’s heard him. He tugs Wade’s arm again, hugging it to his body. It coaxes Wade into slouching a bit. Peter speaks softly, but clearly to him.

“That woman’s following me,” he stammers.

He can feel Wade’s puzzlement and his quick acceptance. Peter might have questioned himself, but Wade trusts him implicitly. “You’ve seen her before?”

Peter nods again into Wade’s shoulder. “Wade, I think she’s been following me for a while. This—shit. I-I don’t—”

“Okay,” Wade says simply, “Come here.”

As Peter tries to regulate his own breathing, Wade brings them to the edge of the sidewalk. There, he wraps an arm around Peter, laughs very loudly, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Before Peter can look at him incredulously, Wade thumbs his phone open and holds it up at his eye-level, the camera facing them.

“Selfie time, babe!” he chimes merrily, “This one’s for the Insta! Look candid.”

With that, Wade snaps several pictures. None of the images are focused on them. In fact, Wade is only partially in the frame and the tufts of Peter’s hair make but a brief appearance. Peter watches, impressed at Wade’s cleverness, as Wade makes a silly face at his phone and captures several pictures of the woman lurking not too far behind them.

“W-T-F, you’re always more photogenic than me,” Wade whines, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I’m going to photoshop the fuck out of those later, hashtag no filter.”

In a quick motion, Wade raises a hand at the road and like it’s being summoned, a taxi pulls up to the curb almost at once. Wade opens the door, ushers Peter through, then closes it. As he walks around the car to get in through the other side, Wade gets a very good eyeful of the woman.

Peter feels like he’s not getting enough oxygen.

When Wade finally gets in the car, he politely tells the cabbie his address and then buckles Peter’s seatbelt. With that, he ignores his own seatbelt and slides over to wrap an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter gratefully leans against him, mind buzzing.

“Not now,” Wade says when Peter looks up at him with an open mouth. “When we get home.”

Peter bites his lips, eyes darting from window to window like if he tries hard enough, he’ll spot the woman within the passing crowds again.

“So,” Peter coughs, body stiff and attentive. “[Stella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1A0p0F_iH8)?”

“It’s my Starbucks name,” Wade confirms casually.

“Wade’s not a complicated name, though?”

“But it’s not as fun to yell.”

At Peter’s curious look, Wade clears his throat and calls out in a roughened baritone. “Pumpkin spice latte for Stella. Stella? Stella? Hey, Stella!”

-

Wade winds himself around Peter protectively the entire journey from the cab, up the elevator, and into his condo. He only lets Peter go when he goes to lock the door behind them, single-handedly as he’s still carrying a sweating frappuccino. As he finishes, he turns around and Peter doesn’t give him a moment to gather his thoughts.

“She’s following me,” Peter says with absolute certainty. He takes an aimless step backward into the kitchen, hands tugging at the too-long sleeves of the hoodie he wears, making the newspaper crinkle loudly. “How had I not noticed that before?” Peter actually has to be the worst superhero that’s ever lived. What good is having mutant hyper-senses if he clearly doesn’t use them well?

Wade takes a step to the side, putting the frappuccino in the fridge before he grasps Peter gently by the elbow and begins escorting him to the living room. “Let’s sit down,” he says calmly. Peter finds himself deposited on the red sofa, looking up at Wade from a storm of roiling anxiety.

Wade seats himself next to Peter and shifts around, pulling a knee up onto the sofa cushions so that he’s facing Peter. He looks huge. And extremely peaceful in the face of Peter’s accusation. Wade pulls out his phone, taps it, and then sets it between them.

An image of the woman shines up at them.

“Wade,” he pleads softly. He can’t tell if Wade’s so calm because chaos is his element or because he doesn’t believe Peter. No, no that’s not it. That’s Peter’s paranoia being directed to the wrong subject. Wade does believe him; it was evident in the way he was quick to get them off the streets. He’d sensed that Peter was uncomfortable and acted accordingly to correct it.

Wade zooms in on and looks at the photo thoughtfully for a moment. Then, he looks back to Peter.

“Tell me where you’ve seen her before.”

Peter gulps, images flying through his head at the speed of light. He fiddles with the newspaper for a minute before tucking it into the cushions of the couch.

Whenever she’d been around, he hadn’t been paying much attention. Especially to her. Looking at the photo, Peter thinks she’s very average looking. In her business woman costume, she looks the same as every other lady in a power-suit walking down the street. She blends in with the crowd.

Wade’s looking at him expectantly.

“At Starbucks just now,” he begins poorly. He’s just trying to collect himself. Wade sits there, as patient as ever. “At the countertop store, where we ordered the granite and marble.”

She’s been right in the aisle, looking at her phone. Wade had navigated Peter around her to get them to the countertop samples.

“On the subway,” he continues. She had been on the subway; the brunette woman just to his left who’d sidestepped him when he’d started looking around for the source of his prickling neck. It was her, wasn’t it? His Spidey sense had picked up her presence and Peter had been too slow to process the message correctly. She had to have been watching him.

“Where else?”

Green eyes, widening in mild surprise, looking scandalized at Wade’s stained shirt. “When we were on our way back from Ruf’s gym. She walked past us.” Green eyes, considering his disheveled appearance with unbridled disapproval. “In the elevator.”

Wade reaches out, hand gripping Peter’s knee. He shakes him a bit and Peter gasps, looking up into Wade’s eyes.

“What elevator?”

“This one,” Peter shakes his head in disbelief. “Here. I was coming to see you, after everything. She was in the elevator. I got off before her.”

Then it’s with great discomfort that Peter remembers being out on patrol, running to a woman’s rescue to prevent a mugging. Not just any woman, it had been _her_. Standing there, dressed well, holding a tote of groceries and an expensive purse. She had slipped away unnoticed and light on her feet when Peter had engaged the two thugs in combat.

Oh, God.

This person hasn’t been just following Peter. This woman has been following Peter Parker and Spider-Man. Was it just happenstance that she was out during his patrol and targeted by thugs? Now that Peter thinks about it, she had been remarkably calm for someone about to get mugged. Usually, the people Spider-Man saves stick around. Not just to thank him in the end, but mostly because they’re frozen in shock, immobile with fear, in the face of nearly being assaulted. But she hadn’t been that frightened, had she? She’d just slipped away with too much skill, leaving Peter to deal with the aftermath.

Had she put herself there on purpose, hoping to catch Spider-Man’s attention?

Peter shakes his head harder, hoping to give himself some clarity. “It’s been too many times for it to have been a coincidence,” he murmurs to himself.

Wade replies anyway, finger hooking under Peter’s chin up to tilt it so that he focuses on Wade again. “Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. Count for me; how many times are you sure you’ve seen her?”

Peter frowns, biting his lip. “At least five,” he admits, looking up at Wade.

Wade no doubt realizes there is one time unaccounted for in Peter’s summary. Peter just listed four occasions in which he’s noticed this woman near him. He left out Spider-Man’s run-in with her, but he still counted it in the overall tally. The data is important here. And Peter doesn’t want to lie.

Wade searches his eyes for a second, mouth set firmly, then brushes his thumb over Peter’s cheek. A gesture of acceptance. Peter hates it as much as he craves it.

“Does she ever try to engage you?” Wade asks, eyes narrowed.

Peter gulps but shakes his head. “No. She’s always in the background. Following.”

“Okay,” Wade says, grabbing his phone again, and starts to compose a text message. “We’ll run these pictures through facial recognition and see what pops up.”

Peter’s about to ask how when the doorbell rings. He sits up ramrod straight and looks at Wade for direction.

Wade, however, just shushes him. “It’s alright, baby boy, that should be the surveyor,” he says, but still presses a hand into Peter’s thigh to keep him sitting as he climbs off the couch. “Stay,” he commands firmly.

Peter doesn’t question it, his nerves in disarray. His wariness is so strong that it catches him off guard. If he’d had his Spider-Man suit on, perhaps he’d be less afraid, he thinks wistfully before chiding himself. That’s ludicrous. The suit doesn’t give Peter power he doesn’t already have. Even right now, Peter can hear the inhabitants of the apartment three floors down. He can smell their cooking. He can feel the stickiness of his hands, catching where they wring together. A burst of heavy-hearted adrenaline coursing through him, he knows if need be, he can hop up, crawl along the ceiling, and web up any evildoer that passes through the front door.

Still, the wariness remains. The shadowed sensation of unease creeps along his shoulders, murmuring that the woman is a harbinger of misfortune and mischance. Peter’s unhappy about her appearance in his life. Maybe another man would rush to confront her, but something—his Spidey sense, he guesses—says he’s not ready to face her yet.

If she’s at the door, Wade will protect him.

Peter’s wariness is for nothing, though, because a bright voice greets Wade as he opens the door. Peter really needs to get his anxiety under wraps. It’s already a source of embarrassment. As much as he adores that he’s found an anchor in Wade, he wishes that Wade didn’t have to see him freaking out. It’s strange: he feels comfortable in his vulnerability around Wade, but at the same time, he wishes he was stronger for Wade. Stronger, faster, [better](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hcBTrs48dvI), smarter. A worthier...what?

Peter cringes.

Images flicker behind his eyes, shifting quickly.

A worthier _partner_. He wants to be a better fit for Wade, someone that Wade can be proud of having as a boyfriend. Not a charge that Wade feels obliged to care for. It hasn’t escaped Peter’s notice that Wade takes care of Peter quite well.

Peter wants to care for Wade too.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson?” a voice sounds from the kitchen.

“Yep, the one and only,” Wade replies, very approachable in tone.

“Good morning, sir, my name is Peggy. I was sent over by Paramount Granite Company to assess your island for the installation scheduled for Monday.”

“Sure thing, Peggy, come right in then. Sorry about the mess.” Peter hears Wade close the door and two sets of footsteps continue into the kitchen. He takes that as permission to get up. No threats here. Still hyperaware, he gets up slowly and pads quietly to the kitchen. He’d rather be in the room with Wade, not alone, despite the apparent lack of danger. It’s silly. Yet, Wade is his partner. He trusts Wade to care for him when he’s not in his right mind.

“I won’t be long, sir, I just have to fill out these two forms and take some photos and measurements.”

When Peter enters the kitchen, he sees a short young woman with a blue company polo on. Her blonde hair is loose in curls around her heart-shaped face and she carries a clipboard and a camera. She immediately starts taking photos of the island. Peter dismisses her quickly, eyes searching out Wade, who’s already seen Peter and is making his way over to him.

Peter relaxes a little bit when Wade steps in front of him. “You want your frappuccino?”

Shrugging, Peter nods. He’s not really that thirsty, but he needs something to do.

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” Wade says with a frown that deepens when Peter flushes. “Alrighty then, when Peggy’s done, I’m going to make you some breakfast.”

“Oh!” At the mention of her name, Peggy looks up from the camera to Wade. “You don’t have to wait for me, I don’t mind if you start cooking.”

Then something profoundly strange happens. Wade begins to smile congenially, probably about to throw in a joke or pop cult reference, but Peggy’s eyes land on Peter. She laughs a little. Politely, Peter supposes, like people do when they’re first meeting others. And Wade’s smile turns stiff.

“We’ll just wait for you to finish. You said you wouldn’t be long, right?” Wade asks.

Peggy nods at Wade’s question, but her eyes are still on Peter. And Peter realizes that he never introduced himself. He’s just standing there awkwardly, haunting the doorframe like he’s some kind of ghost. It must be phenomenally creepy. Peter rectifies the awkwardness by offering Peggy a small wave and a feeble smile.

“Hi, Peggy,” he calls to her, trying to be less inelegant. “I’m Peter. Nice to meet you. You can take your time, breakfast can wait. We just had coffee. Er, well, he had coffee. I had a frappuccino.”

Too much unnecessary information. He’s trying though. Really. Wade shifts closer to Peter, probably smelling how frazzled he still is.

Peggy giggles, unaffected by Peter’s air of negativity. He’s thankful for that. She smiles kindly at him, her lipstick bright pink in the kitchen lighting. “Oh, did you go to Starbucks?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, pushing through his social anxiety to make small talk. That’s what people do when people come to their homes, right?

When Peggy laughs again, Peter thinks he’s finally found someone who finds him just as funny as Wade does. The thought makes him huff a silent laugh too. Peggy smiles even more widely at Peter’s engagement and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, should it?” Wade says suddenly, his voice colder than Peter’s heard it, possibly ever. Peter looks up at him with mild confusion. He can’t be that worried about Peter’s dietary timetable.

Well, scratch that. He probably is. That’s a very Wade thing to do.

Peggy seems to startle at his question, but she catches herself professionally and nods. “Fifteen to twenty minutes, sir.”

“Do I need to fill anything out on those forms?”

Shaking her head, Peggy looks to the clipboard, then back to Wade. “No, sir, I can fill everything out. I’ll just need your signature when I’m finished to confirm the appointment.”

“Right, then we’ll be in the living room. Just holler if you need us, cool?”

At Peggy’s assenting nod, Wade quirks a smile at Peter and begins to lead him back to the living room. They make it a few steps before Peter remembers. “My frap.”

Wade’s hand comes up to rub at Peter’s back. “I’ll get it, you go sit down,” he offers.

“No, it’s fine,” Peter says. He still has some extra energy to burn anyway from his adrenaline rush. “I’ll grab it, you go sit.” Squeezing Wade’s hand so that he knows his offer wasn’t snubbed, Peter goes back into the kitchen and heads to the fridge.

Peggy beams up at him when he gets within eyesight. “Living room that boring?” she quips with a funny smile.

“Nah,” Peter opens the fridge, fishing out his drink. “Just forgot the frap.”

“Oh, is that a green tea frap? Those are my favorites!” Peggy says as she takes another picture of the island. Peter has no idea how she knows what she’s capturing if she’s not looking at the camera. Her gaze makes Peter feel like an interloper. Peter sort of understands. She’s here to do her job and she can’t very well do it if people keep interrupting her.

“Mine too. Sorry,” he says quickly, closing the fridge, and starting to head toward the doorway again.

“No coffee for your dad, then?”

The question makes Peter freeze solely due to confusion. Eyebrows pinches, nose wrinkled, he turns to an amicable-looking Peggy. What? “I’m sorry?”

She laughs again. “It’s okay, I totally understand. I wouldn’t share a frap either. My brother likes to pretend he hates them, but he totally sneaks in a sip or two when I’m not looking.”

Peter is very lost in this conversation but nods anyway. What’s the phrase? Nod and smile. Peter nods and smiles, then he walks out of the kitchen. And in true Peter Parker form, Peter stops three steps outside of the doorway. He scratches his head and his eyes widen in perturbed realization. The epitome of social awkwardness, he walks right back into the room.

This time, when Peggy looks up to smile at him, he cuts off what she’s about to say. “Did you just call Wade my father?”

Peggy frowns, hands drooping with the camera still in them. “Mr. Wilson?” she asks like she’s confirming Wade’s name and then nods affirmatively. For the world, she does not look one bit like she’s missed anything.

Peter blinks. “Wade’s not my father, he’s my boyfriend.”

The struggle is real.

In the face of Peggy’s sudden puce flush, Peter considers the detail that this entire conversation was completely unnecessary. He also considers that his social battery is finished for the day, regardless of how early it is. So instead of trying to pump it for more juice, he nods succinctly at Peggy.

“Let us know if you need anything.”

Yes, that’ll remedy the situation.

Saluting Peggy awkwardly with his frap, Peter scurries out of the door and into the living room where he drops onto the sofa. Worn out already, Peter barely even looks at Wade as he crawls right on top of him, much like he had when he was here wrapped up like a burrito.

He halfheartedly sips at his frappuccino. It feels ruined by all that’s gone on this morning. First he finds himself being stalked skillfully by some lady who clearly knows his secret identity. Then he makes an idiot out of himself in front of a civilian who thinks his boyfriend is his father. There’s a mountain of things to muse on right now. Like _why_ he has a stalker. Or maybe that while Peter finds Wade and his age different attractive, it’s clear that others might not share the opinion.

Frustrated, Peter discards his drink on the coffee table, shifts on Wade’s lap, and collapses into him with his nose pressed into Wade’s neck. He counts Wade’s heartbeats instead of thinking. It takes a few minutes for him to realize that Wade’s being unusually quiet. Reluctantly, Peter pulls out of his hiding place to see Wade grinning down at him like a clown. Does this really seem the time for smiles?

Peter frowns. “What?” he asks, looking at Wade carefully. “You’re acting weird. What’s wrong?”

Wade’s arms wrap around him, encouraging him to snuggle close again.

“Abso-fucking-lutely nothing, beautiful baby boy. Not a damned thing is wrong. Everything’s just right, Goldilocks.”

“My hair is brown, Wade,” he mumbles into Wade’s chest.

“And it’s perfect, just like you.”


	2. Chapter 2

-

When Peter wakes up, the world’s axis has been shifted. He blinks his eyes open and stretches on instinct, sluggishly peeking out of the crook of Wade’s neck where his face is pressed. Wade’s arm is heavy around his waist, his hand pressed flat against the side of Peter’s ribs comfortingly. The last thing he remembers is climbing on top of Wade and abandoning his frappuccino.

It seems like he fell asleep. Peter cringes a little. No doubt the rush of nerves sent him into a sleepy drop. Wade seems to have moved them though. Instead of sitting, now they are laying down on the couch with Peter on top of Wade.

“You can keep napping, sweetpea. The _Guinness World Records_ are due to show up at any moment.”

The rumble of Wade’s voice vibrates against Peter pleasantly. Peter shifts, using a hand against Wade’s chest to lift himself up. The afternoon light flooding the room is too bright against his eyes. He squints, looking at where Wade’s head is resting against the arm of the couch. Peter sees he has his phone in his other hand, thumbing through something on it. As soon as Peter looks at him, Wade’s attention lifts from the phone and to Peter.

“You were asleep for three hours,” Wade smirks. “I knew I woke you up too early.”

“Hm,” Peter hums. “Sorry.” Three hours seems excessive. Peter can’t believe Wade literally let Peter use him as a mattress for that long.

Wade snorts. “You mean ‘sorry, not sorry’.” His hand traces along Peter’s spine.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks groggily, looking to Wade’s phone,

Wade shakes it a little. “Research,” he answers succinctly, then raises himself up for a short second to press a quick, wet kiss to Peter’s cheek. “Freckles!” he declares cheerfully.

Peter blinks at his grin.

“I keep thinking I have a favorite one, but then when I find it, I realize they’re all so precious and I can’t have one favorite. They’re all my favorites.”

“What?” Peter asks, struggling to keep up with Wade.

In response, Wade darts up again and another kiss is pressed to Peter’s other cheek as Peter blinks owlishly at him.

“Freckles,” Wade says sagely. “Gotta catch them all. With my mouth, preferably.”

“You confuse me,” Peter admits, his other hand coming up to rub at his cheeks where he knows his freckles sit. They’ve been there all his life, multiplying in the summers. Once when he was younger, Peter had tried to cover them all with Aunt May’s makeup, complaining about them and referring to them as “spots”. Since then, Peter’s grown up largely forgetting they exist. They’re just a part of his face.

“Christ on a crusty cracker, I fucking love that you don’t know,” Wade shakes his head and sighs dreamily.

“Know what?”

“[You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJO3ROT-A4E) don’t know you’re beautiful,” Wade comments, then perks up, mouth dropped in shock before rushing to continue. “Everyone else in the room can see it. Everyone else, but you! Baby, you light up my world like nobody else—”

Peter smack his hand on Wade’s mouth, muffling him quickly. “No!” he admonishes Wade like a naughty puppy. “No _One Direction_.” No karaoke this close to Peter’s ear when he’s still in the sensitive state of waking up.

Wade licks Peter’s hand, drenching it in saliva. Peter jerks back on instinct, face screwing up with disgust. “Ew,” he cries, looking at his hand with incredulity.

“L-O-L, you’re [not](https://www.wish.com/search/lol%20ur%20not%20harry%20styles/product/58d3d824a905b457ce2f0285) Harry Styles,” Wade chortles at the look on Peter’s face.

Peter swipes his hand messily over Wade’s cheek and emits a cry of triumph when Wade stops laughing to cringe. Payback is so sweet.

“Gross,” Wade whines, but pulls Peter’s wet hand to his mouth for a kiss instead of shoving it away.

So ridiculous.

Peter doesn’t hesitate to kiss him. He hums happily into Wade’s lips, laughing when Wade mutters a quick “fuck yes, baby,” and gleefully engages Peter in a heated, toe-curling kiss. Peter’s fingers curl into the fabric of Wade’s sweatshirt, feeling his steadily increasing heartbeat. Wade’s hand cups the nape of Peter’s neck, gently angling his head until they fit together perfectly, and Wade’s tongue slips into his mouth. Peter moans at the same time his stomach rumbles loudly.

Wade cracks up as Peter pulls back, mortified.

“Baby boy,” Wade laughs, “Is that your way of telling me you’re not hungry for just my dick?”

“Wade!”

“You get so, so red; it’s so amazing. Little mutant lobster! No, don’t hide your face, let me squeeze those cheeks. It’s my turn to pinch things.”

“Wade,” he moans miserably into Wade’s chest.

“Aw, Bambi,” Wade ruffles Peter’s hair. “I’ll make breakfast burritos.”

Getting into the kitchen is harder than it sounds. First they have to detangle, which involves a series of maneuvers in which Peter tries to unweave himself from Wade while Wade continues to wrap around him like ivy. Then when Peter manages to extract himself successfully, his victory is thwarted by Wade pulling him down on the couch again. It takes another fifteen minutes of Wade wrestling Peter around and peppering his flushing face with kisses. Peter complains the entire time—because he has a reputation to upkeep, not because he has anywhere else he would rather be—and finally, they stand and emigrate from the living room. Wade starts rummaging through the cabinets and refrigerator, while Peter bypasses the broken island and parks himself on top of a counter near the sink.

“You didn’t have to stay with me on the couch,” Peter says lightly as Wade begins pulling things out. It all looks very complicated, so Peter doesn’t try to follow.

“I totes did,” Wade replies. “I was happy to. I’m ever so eager to do anything horizontal with you. We can do all of the horizontal things. And the vertical things. All the things on the x- and y-axes. And,” he grabs a carton of eggs and raises one hand to draw in the air. “All on the z-axis thang that I never understood in high school algebra. Whatever, point is that I want to lay with you on every surface, no matter which way gravity will pull us.”

“Gravity can only pull us one way, Wade,” Peter snorts. “Also, the z-axis represents depth in the Cartesian coordinate system.” He cuts himself off with a firm bite to the tongue. Wade’s not here for a lesson in mathematics.

“Talk nerdy to me, baby,” Wade purrs as he scrambles eggs.

Peter gives him a blasé look. Wade shrugs and regales him with a feline smile. “We each have our roles. You talk nerdy, I talk dirty. Ya feel me?”

“Wade,” Peter whines, cheeks still flaming.

“Don’t worry, lovely, we both know how good I am with this mouth,” Wade licks his lips and throws Peter’s the least subtle once-over mankind has ever witnessed. When Peter crosses his arms, Wade sighs dramatically, throwing his head back. “Okay, okay, I know, after food.”

Peter nods approvingly and they settle into a momentary silence. Peter watches Wade work deftly around the stove. Peter dumps an extra handful of spinach into the pan, shrugging at Wade’s silent question. Wade rolls with it easily, mixing up a bunch of things with spices with names Peter can’t read. Then Wade speaks up, eyes still on the skillet where he’s frying up vegetables.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed.”

“Hm?”

“About being so smart, Petey. You’re really fucking smart. Own that shit. Let all your nerd facts lose; I want to see you geek out.”

Peter can feel the derisive smile creeping onto his face. He can’t clamp his lips down in time to hide the look of self-deprecation. He doesn’t mind being smart. In fact, Peter loves his intelligence. It’s one of the things he can pride himself on. But recently he hasn’t been feeling as though he’s living up to his smarts. He doesn’t deserve the stamp anymore. A smart person would have noticed a stalker. A smart person would have saved everyone—no. Not now.

“Yeah?” Peter says lightly, “You want to hear me talk for hours about proteins?”

Wade smiles at him sunnily. “Yeah, baby, I could listen to you talk for hours about anything. Get your geek on, I’m all ears.”

Peter looks at him dubiously.

“Hand me those tortillas.”

-

Peter does talk.

He talks for more than an hour about the contents of his lab notebook as they sit to eat on the couch. He tells Wade all of the details of his experimentation with his Spidey fluid, without ever mentioning that it’s for webs. He’s surprised that Wade actually seems interested and his curiosity never wanes throughout the entire conversation. Wade clearly doesn’t have a background in biology or chemistry, but he’s able to piece together what Peter says and ask insightful questions that take a second or two for Peter to answer. He’s not afraid to ask Peter to explain something and Peter finds himself enjoying laying out the building blocks for each concept he’s analyzed in the lab for him. The more they converse, the quicker Peter’s dubiousness disappears. His enthusiasm shines through when he speaks, animated and passionate, and Wade matches his excitement readily. It feels more than good to talk to Wade about his research. It feels transcendent. It feels like he’s finally sharing a piece of himself that he’s been forced to keep locked away.

It makes him feel stupendously transparent.

If it had been anyone else, Peter would have expected the conversation to end abruptly with a blinking look of boredom. But it’s actually a series of text messages that interrupt them. At first, they’re ignored, with Wade blatantly silencing his phone. It makes a small spark of delight creep its way up Peter’s spine—to be put first, that is. Selfish of him, absolutely, but nonetheless it delights him just the same. Is this usual? Is it normal to find someone in this world who will consistently put another before them? Even small tokens like this, being paid attention to even when a phone is insisting to take the spotlight, feels like the ultimate gift of loyalty.

Something twists inside of Peter, laced with shivering satisfaction so bright, it’s akin to wonder.

However, when two more texts ping their way through, Peter throws Wade a questioning face.

“I don’t need to answer it, keep telling me about how you actually get the fiber. Like, how does the fiber become solid if it starts off liquid?” Wade says, not giving his phone a second glance.

Peter smiles—that’s a really, really good question. Once, he sat with Aunt May to talk about his project and she’d completely missed the fact that the spider silk has to be produced. The parts have to be put together to get a rope; it doesn’t just start out as silk. If it did, Peter wouldn’t be able to manipulate the amino acids inside of it to alter its strength or elasticity. “They’re never really liquid, they’re just dissolved in a liquid. The recombinant proteins are housed in an aqueous solvent. But if you put it into a syringe and then through a capillary tube, you can shear the proteins. So when I put the tube into a low pH buffer, they come out as a string-like solid. Into really long, but solid fibers.”

“What happens if you don’t put it in the buffer?”

“Then the fibers don’t form.” A really, very good question. It was the first question Peter had when he started working with silk. He’d been bitten by a spider; one day he was a normal human and the next he had spider-like qualities. But not the most characteristic quality of a spider: silk. He always wondered why he’d never been able to produce silk. It sounds crazy, but is there a difference between the kind of crazy that allows him to walk on ceilings and the kind that would allow him to grow silk glands? The pH of the human body is too basic to accommodate silk production.

Another ping.

“You should check your phone, that’s like the fourth text,” Peter waves off a complaining Wade.

He grumbles but listens. His subsequent hum of interest has Peter curious instantly.

“What?”

“It’s Weas,” Wade answers. “He’s running the facial recognition for the stalker lady.”

Peter sits to attention. “Well? What did he find?”

“Nothing yet,” Wade grouses. “He loves to text me when he’s made no progress. Fucker.”

Peter shrugs, “So what’s with the chain texts?”

“Ah, trust this fucker to embed my request into one of his own,” Wade rolls his eyes so hard that it looks painful. “Seriously, I can never ask for anything! He always makes it about what he wants! He’s like a woman scorned.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that the facial recognition software is going to take another five hours to finish matching our image. In the meantime, Weasel is _helpfully_ suggesting that I go talk to a mutual contact for more information.”

Peter reaches over Wade to grab the phone he’s glaring at. Weasel most certainly is requesting that but in a more colorful set of words.

“How is that Weasel’s agenda? I hate to say it, but that actually sounds like a good piece of advice.” Boy does Peter hate giving Weasel credit.

“Because he’s been railing on me to meet with his contact for Sunny’s bullshit ninja case. He’s such a pushy little bitch. I’ve been working on his dumbass favor like hardcore, day and night. He should be meeting with his own contact. Fucking lazy bastard.” Wade rubs at his head and neck, a look of irritation spreading over him. Peter hadn’t realized this Sunny thing had been taking up so much of Wade’s time.

“Why’s it taking so long?” Peter can’t help but ask. Wade is known for being the best at his job. So why the difficulty now?

“Don’t you take his side!” Wade whines, sticking his tongue out at Peter. “I’m a merc. I’m not a magician. Or the New York metropolitan police. I can’t make evidence appear out of thin air. Everyone knows Sunny’s bullshitting, but no one can prove it because he has all of the lucky charms. Johnson cleaned up well before hightailing it out.”

Wade’s tone is complaining, but as he speaks, his eyes grow sharp and considering. Peter gets the immediate impression that Wade knows more than he’s saying.

“What is it?” Peter prompts, leaning forward on the couch, knee sticking into one of the empty plates that hold the crumbs of a tortilla.

“Hm?”

“What is it?” Peter asks. “You look like you’re thinking about something.”

Wade licks his lips and leans back on the couch, eyes training on the coffee table as he talks. “I dunno,” he shrugs flippantly. “You could call it a bit of merc intuition.”

Peter waits out his silence. He’s rewarded when Wade points to the newspaper still pressed between the couch cushions, squished carelessly. Peter grabs it and tries to hand it to Wade, but Wade shakes his head and gestures for Peter to look at it. When Peter unfolds it, he realizes something that he did not when he’d dropped it earlier this morning to see if his stalker was still on their trail. It’s the same front page that Peter saw a while back when he was re-stocking the newspaper section in Mr. Delmar’s. On the front is Adric Johnson and the suspicions around his status as an alleged missing person.

“Turn the page,” Wade says.

Peter turns it and is greeted with the front page of another newspaper: a man murdered, his girlfriend nowhere to be found. Flipping the page again, Peter sees a leaf from another newspaper, a highly regarded businessman declared missing after an after-hours cocktail party.

“I don’t understand,” Peter admits, flipping back and forth through the pages. It’s not really one newspaper, it’s just a few pages from separate newspapers put together and folded up into one. Wade must have purposefully put them together. He’d been reading them this morning, no doubt, as he waited for Peter in Starbucks. But why?

“They’re all missing,” Wade says. “Well, sort of. There’s Johnson, who vaporized into thin air. There’s the Trump look-a-like, also lost as fuck. There’s the bro who met an unfortunate end and his chick who’s gone with the wind.”

Peter raises an eyebrow challengingly. “You’re saying these missing person cases are all connected?”

Wade shrugs, but he looks more certain than uncertain. “It’s possible.”

Crumpling in the newspaper a bit as he shifts, Peter bites his lip and looks at Wade carefully. “Wade,” he starts. “It’s possible, but is it probable? Last year, thirteen thousand people were reported as missing in New York City. That’s means that around thirty-five people go missing each day. Of thirty-five people, how could you justify that these three specifically are related?”

Peter doesn’t want to insult Wade, but it does seem a bit far-fetched. That is unless it’s something bigger. “None of these people have similar profiles.”

Wade does not look insulted at all. If anything, he looks intrigued, eyes sharp like a hawk as they fix on Peter. “You’re assuming I think they’ve been abducted.”

“Abducted,” Peter nods, “Or even if they’ve been murdered. Three people gone, that would count as serial murder. Serial killers usually follow patterns. They choose similar victims; similar features or all from the same workplace. The same thing for serial abductors. They fixate on a set profile, like sex traffickers—they tend to choose girls from within a certain age range and socioeconomic status. But these three people?”

“A businessman in his late fifties who was partying in Bayside, upper-crust trash; a heist hacker in Jamaica, loaded but only in bitcoin; and a waitress in Jackson Heights that worked at _Denny’s_ , though she was aspiring to become a model for _Victoria’s Secret_ ,” Wade fills in the blanks with a demonstrative handwave. There it is, then. Three different people with three different backgrounds, from elite to criminal to mundane. A mix of genders, ethnicities, and ages.

“How could they be related? They don’t have anything in common,” Peter frowns at him.

“They all went missing at night,” Wade starts airily, almost weakly like he knows it’s not a good argument. Most people go missing at night when the dark and sleeping city doesn’t have eyes on them. “Between the hours of midnight and five in the morning, all last seen on rooftops. The po-po don’t have any leads on any of them either.”

“How do you know that?” Peter blinks, but Wade just throws him a bawdy smile.

“Baby, I got friends on the other side,” Wade winks. “Just call me ‘[Doctor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZAY-78zhmw&t=87s) Wilson-ilier.’”

Wade curses as his text alert sounds three times in a row. Looking at it, he scoffs, then stands. “Fine, asshole,” he mutters, then stretches, looking at Peter. “You up for a little field excursion?”

Peter blinks, still holding the papers. “I guess?” he responds uncertainly.

“Good, let’s get hoppin’. We gotta go see Rags,” Wade claps his hands. “I know where to catch him at this hour. He shouldn’t be too far from here, but we’ve got to go buy eight packs of Newports from the corner store down the block or else he won’t talk at us.”

“You mean, ‘talk to us’?”

“No. I mean _at_ us,” Wade pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not looking forward to this, ugh.”

Peter rushes to stand, following Wade to the kitchen. He abandons the newspapers on the countertop near the stove, unwilling to put them down. He’s still thinking about these three people, not entirely sure why Wade seems so sure of them being linked. Wade catches his look.

“It’s an investigation in progress, baby boy,” he sings. “Just remember what I said about one, two, and threes.”

Peter looks up at him, head tilting back. “One is an accident, two is a coincidence, and three is a pattern?”

“Smart as all hell,” Wade pecks him on the lips. It’s a warm and sweet kiss. Nothing intimate, but Peter savors it nonetheless, humming as Wade’s warmth radiates onto him. “C’mon now, hustle time! Rags is always on a schedule. I’m not sure how the bum manages it without drowning in his own barf. Moves like a rabid fox, that one. I fucking hate him, he’s a nightmare.”

Peter’s on his heels as Wade flies out the door.

“Wait,” Peter tugs at his arm as they reach the elevator. “Who the heck is Rags? And what kind of name is ‘Rags’?”

Wade pulls him close, slipping an arm around his waist. “You’ll see and all will make sense.”

Peter looks doubtful at that and Wade presses him closer into the heat of his body as the elevator descends.

“I have a [bad feeling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S74rvpc6W60) about this,” Peter mumbles into Wade’s arm.

“Nothing to worry about, Han Solo,” Wade snorts. “The only thing scary about Rags is that if you stand too close to him, you might get scabies.”

Peter rears back in disbelief. “What?”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Wade coos, pinching Peter’s cheek like Peter knows he’s been wanting to for the past two hours. “I’ll protect you from the bloodsuckers!”

“ _Sarcoptic_ mites don’t suck blood, they just lay their eggs under your skin,” Peter corrects gently.

Wade winces back at him in disgust. “Oh, hell no, you mean like the movie _Aliens?_ ”

Peter looks up at him, nodding in awed agreement. That’s precisely what he’d been thinking. “Exactly like in _Aliens._ ”

-

Armed with a bag full of Newport cigarette packs and five Slim Jims—because apparently, they can’t be too prepared when it comes to bribing—Wade leads Peter eighteen blocks south from his apartment building. The entire time, Peter is looking over his shoulder for the green-eyed woman, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Figures, just as soon as Peter’s hip to her, she’s removed herself from the picture. Had bumping into her formally spooked her enough to get her to leave Peter alone? Peter’s anxiety must be wafting off of him, curling and twisting in the air until it slaps Wade in the face because as soon as Peter feels his throat tighten, Wade slings an arm around him and starts babbling about God knows what. By the time Peter’s stopped glancing around, Wade’s giving a full-on comparison of the taste of chimichangas north versus south of the United States border.

Finally, Wade checks the time from a Hello Kitty watch on his left wrist and curses. They walk another three blocks quickly, Peter struggling to keep up with Wade’s long strides.

Peter’s not sure where he thought they were going, but they end up outside of a 7-Eleven on a corner that smells like overcooked hot dogs.

Wade brings Peter to the side of the building before he gently squeezes the nape of Peter’s neck.

“Okay, babe,” he starts, bending a little to look Peter in the eye. “Here’s what’s up. Rags is a little skittish around new people. He won’t drop the act unless he’s in front of a familiar face. Unless he’s over the moon. In which case, this ain’t gonna be purdy.” Wade pouts. “I’m going to go behind the 7-Eleven and give him a talking to. Like, ten minutes tops if he likes our haul. Are you alright to stand here? Or do you want to wait inside the store? If you want, I can call Dopinder and you can sit in the car until I’m done.”

Wade’s bending at the knees, concern etched on his face. It’s devastatingly touching.

“I’m fine,” Peter assures him. He _is_ fine. His restlessness won’t settle until he knows who the green-eyed woman is and why she’s following him, but it’s something that’s in the process of being discovered. Weasel is working out her identity as he stands here. Peter recognizes he’s powerless to do anything but wait.

Wade nods, kneading Peter’s shoulder. “Chances are, your fangirl isn’t going to do any damage. If she’s been following you for this long and nothing bad’s happened to you, she’s probably just gathering intel.”

Yes, that is tremendously comforting. Thanks, Wade.

“I can wait here,” Peter says firmly. Nothing bad has happened to him yet. What are the chances that something bad will happen to him now compared against yesterday or the day before?

Wade looks like he might argue and make Peter wait inside the store, but after a moment of seeming deliberation with himself, he sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “If anyone gives you any trouble, do a backflip over them and say my name, say my [name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQgd6MccwZc).”

“Yeah, if someone’s acting kinda shady, ain’t calling me baby, I’ll get you,” Peter replies drily, arms crossing over his chest.

“For any situation in which someone who is not me, myself, or I, is a: acting shady or b: calling you ‘baby’, I will not be held responsible for my actions. I’ll rip their small intestine out of their throat and their large intestine out of their ass and use them as a jump rope.”

Peter blinks.

“And then toss them on a grill, bloody bits and all, for a good, ol’ Canadian barbecue.”

Well, that was very graphic.

And reluctantly appealing.

Almost as soon as he finishes talking, Wade winces. Then eyes darting to the side before focusing on Peter’s nose intently. “And I mean that in the most metaphorical, non-Lecter way possible.”

Which is a total lie because that intricately crafted sentence had come from Wade with entirely too much ease. Hearing it is intensely startling and not necessarily in the negative way that Peter’s pretty sure it is supposed to be. Possessiveness in real life is very not cool; it certainly is an indicator of an unhealthy, controlling, and possibly detrimentally co-dependent relationship. Peter’s been berating himself recently for being too possessive of Wade. It’s wrong, even if it’s all in his head. But Wade being possessive? Should be a warning for an upcoming [danger zone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3D7Y_ycSms&feature=youtu.be).

It’s too bad that all Peter feels is a tinge of breezy disbelief and a hot smack of beguiling captivation. Instead of being reasonably unsettled, Peter wants to dig his nails into Wade’s skin and lick up any blood that escapes. Crawl inside of him. Wrap around him and pat him encouragingly as he bites at anyone who comes near Peter. He’s very good at keeping Peter safe.

And that has absolutely nothing to do with anything. How did Peter’s mind just come up with that? What even was his chain of thought to begin with?

Wade suddenly shakes the plastic bag in his hand. “Okay, can’t wait any longer or he’ll skedaddle. Don’t look too pretty on this corner or we’ll attract attention, ‘kay?”

Rolling his eyes and huffing, Peter watches as Wade makes his way behind the 7-Eleven. “I don’t wear enough leather to come off as a bad girl,” he calls to Wade’s back. “That’s kind of your territory, we said.”

“I could probably change that!” Wade shouts back without even looking. “I’ve got a pair of leather cuffs with your name on them, Bambi. They’re lonely in my bedside drawer, I’m sure they’d rather be affixing you to my headboard.”

Standing on a street corner is really not the place to pop a boner.

-

It turns out Peter cannot wait on the corner. Mostly because he is eight million percent nosey. He lasts less than a minute waiting complacently. He watches the traffic roll by, eyes drawn to a city bus that smells overwhelmingly like benzine to him. Peter watches it for just mere seconds, his imagination running wild as the glare of the sunlight off of the bus windows turns every passenger into pale, distorted facsimiles of humans before sighing harshly. It doesn’t matter how many cats curiosity has killed, Peter finds curiosity leading his actions on most days. He has every intention of letting Wade handle this, he really does. Which is why he parks himself up against the wall of the building. With a bit of focus, he hears Wade over the sounds of traffic to his left.

“Yo, yo, yo,” Wade says in a friendly, bro-voice. “What’s happening, Ragtime? Hit it up high! Or not. That’s cool too. Sticks and stones, man.”

Peter hears a rustling sound, like Wade’s shaking the plastic bag of goodies about.

“Got a little something for you, Rags. Some of those sweet, sweet cancer sticks. The smoking kind and the cured meat kind. Hella on fleek, right? Aces?”

“Aces and spades, and queens and kings. Castles and dragons, crowns and rings,” Peter scrunches his face in confusion when he hears a breathy voice answers Wade back in a singing lilt.

“Does that mean you’re willing to make a trade, my good sir?” Oh, goddamn, the revival of the horrible, generic British accent. God, damn it all to [hell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPbjPOgRtyA).”

“Trades, tokens, and treasure. Gold, answers, and clues; all yours with pleasure, if you pay your dues.”

“Ohmygod, this is me asking the ancestors for patience. I did not bring my gun, but there’s a brick on the floor and I’m not afraid to use it, Rags. You know me. Tell me what the fuck you saw,” Wade spits.

The precipitous darkening in the timbre of Wade’s voice has Peter springing into action as a muffled thump rings through the following silence. He peers around the wall in haste to make sure Wade’s not about to stone someone to death. What he sees sends him for quite the doozy.

With his enhanced eyesight, he can see flawlessly despite how shadowed the back of the store is. There’s Wade, bag still in hand, with a strong forearm pressing a man into the wall ruthlessly. That man? Peter would recognize those raggedy braids anywhere. _That_ is the homeless man Peter has been giving lunch for like over a month now.

What the heck?

“Saw this, saw that, saw it all very well. Seen the fine lines, but what it was? Couldn’t tell,” the homeless man says dreamily, heedless of Wade’s aggressive hold on him.

Peter watches, practically feeling trouble resound in the air between them. When had Peter’s life become so complex? No, he’s not going to answer that because the answer surely backtracks to that fateful trip to Oscorp. It’s like the world just wants to trick and tease him. If there’s a God, then she’s a bored gamemaster who tosses pawns like Peter into [rings of fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaevVdrKq0E&feature=youtu.be) with queens, just to see what happens. Wade, for his part, doesn’t look like he wants to play any games, though. He shakes the homeless man—Rags—again, crushing his fraying braids against the brick wall.

“Ain’t nobody got time for this,” Wade tells Rags in a cautionary tone. “I came in good faith and brought you all your booty. More booty than Kim Kardashian. Make this easy on both of us, buddy; work through the fog. Adric Johnson. Tell me what I want to know. I need to get home in time for the _Golden Girls_ reruns.”

“He runs and it runs, then bullets from guns,” Rags tells Wade’s shoulder animatedly, face expressive and eyes zingy. “Shots fired: _bang_ , _bang_! Shots landed: _clang, clang_! Just like the night, the target was black, but unlike the night, the darkness fought back.”

“I just don’t get paid enough.”

Even from this awkward angle, Peter reads the stiffness of Wade’s body. It tightens him like a taut rope, muscles bunching up irritably. Peter can see the moment Wade’s patience has truly dried up.

Peter runs to the pair of them just as Wade drops the plastic bag and fists a hand in Rags’s ratty hair to pull his head to the side.

“See that brick? I’m going to crack open your skull like a drunk tourist cracks open coconuts in Cancun during spring break.”

Peter thinks he gets there just in time to stop Wade from bashing Rags head first into the concrete. He very obviously startles both of them by materializing behind Wade rather abruptly and uncalled for. They both jump about a foot in the air.

“Um, hello?” Peter tries, recoiling sheepishly when Wade glances over his shoulder to look disappointedly at Peter.

“I thought you were staying on the corner,” Wade prompts, invisible eyebrows lifted at Peter in search of an answer.

“I was, but then I….” Peter trails off, locking eyes with Rags. Up close, the situation feels even more real. What is the likelihood that _this_ particular homeless person just happened to park himself out of Mr. Delmar’s Deli-Grocery around the same time Peter escaped from Stark Tower?

This man is Weasel’s contact.

Oh, God.

Peter’s precarious castle of cards is demolished with a swift blow to its poorly engineered foundation.

The man’s hazy, fevered eyes look at him. He looks the same as he always does when Peter slips him food during his shift. Gazing upon him now, Peter feels the same sort of helplessness the dinosaurs must have felt when they looked up to the sky to see an asteroid heading straight toward them. The impending doom hovers over Peter like encroaching clouds of a nuclear winter. This can only mean one thing: Weasel knows exactly who Peter is. How long will it take for him to determine Mr. Stark is Peter’s mentor? Once he does, he’s one epiphany away from outing Peter as Spider-Man.

It was all nice while it lasted, Peter tells himself sarcastically.

Weasel.

A man couldn’t trust Weasel as far as he could throw him. He’s probably staked out in his hidey hole right now, behind his piles of tech, waiting for the right moment to present his findings as a bargaining chip.

The little shining sliver of rage sitting just below his skin begins to pulse, fighting to surface.

“No one puts baby in the corner,” Peter babbles almost automatically. It’s virtually cinematic—the way Wade’s firm face crumbles and he lets out a tremendous snort, looking at Peter like he’s unreal.

Peter promptly ignores that.

“Hey there, um, do you remember me?” Peter asks because that is astronomically more acceptable than asking outright if Weasel has planted this man on him, then punching him in the face. Aunt May says you get more flies with honey than vinegar.

“Remember?” Rags smiles widely with two missing teeth. “Remember—”

“The fifth [of](http://www.potw.org/archive/potw405.html) November,” Wade finishes grumbling. “Yeah, we all fucking know that one. Are you going to talk or am I going to have to beat the stuffing out of you? Don’t think an audience will make it any more fun. It’s never fun for the piñata but give me a blindfold and a bat and I’m the happiest pig in shit.”

Rags looks extremely bitter at Wade cutting his poetic verse off. Wade engages him in a brief glaring contest before he frowns and looks back at Peter sharply with inquisitiveness. “What do you mean, ‘remember me’?”

Peter hesitates, wondering if now is a good time to reveal what’s so obvious: Weasel knows who Peter is. He wanted to do more digging on Peter and he got the upper hand, as usual. Weasel used one of his many contacts to dissect Peter’s life. Who knows how much information this man has on Peter if he knows about Peter’s workplace?

That being said, the Spider-Man in Peter knows it’s not this homeless man’s fault. Rags is an employee. His boss is Peter’s problem. Rags is just the middleman. The anger Peter feels flashing orange and red behind his eyes is for Weasel, not Rags. Which is exactly why Peter should not be telling Wade this when Wade has Rags pressed up against the wall seemingly two seconds away from decapitating him.

“Uhm,” Peter stalls, biting his lip. “I give him sandwiches sometimes.”

It’s all true. Not one lie to be found. Wade, however, wears an expression that says he was not born yesterday. His face is bewildered like he’s not sure what Peter means, yet at the same time wary as though he already scented something questionable.

“What?” Wade glances between Rags and Peter. “Is ‘sandwiches’ code for something to you kiddies?”

“No!” Peter hisses, outraged and clenching his fists. “What are you implying?”

“I have no idea,” Wade retorts, tilting his head at Peter. “Feel free to elaborate any day now, pumpkin.”

“Wade,” Peter sighs, eyes darting to where Wade’s hold never falters on Rags. “I just give him sandwiches from the store I work at when we have extra. You know...” Peter shrugs, floundering. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” That’s what he was taught in school. Homelessness is a terrible situation that could happen to anyone. Not everyone can spare money but giving someone a meal is just the _right_ thing to do. A kindness.

“What do you mean ‘it’s the right thing to do’?” Wade parrots, confusion still apparent.

Peter, who’s been hanging around Wade way too much, flaps his arms about in a manner he very blatantly picked up from him. “You know,” Peter whispers, unwilling to offend Rags. He doesn’t want to make Rags feel like he’s less than Peter simply due to his current life situation. “When people don’t have anything, you give what you can.”

Wade does not appear to understand Peter’s covert language at all. He lifts his shoulders at Peter, shaking his head. “Huh?”

“Oh, my God,” Peter smacks a hand to his face. They really must be spending too much time together if Peter’s picking up Wade’s wild jazz hands and Wade is picking up Peter’s social ineptness. Shuffling a little closer, Peter intends to speak into Wade’s ear. But then he looks up from his hand and remembers that Rags and Wade are nearly chest to chest as Wade holds him against the wall.

Rags just watches the two of them with a distracted gaze like there’s gauze over his eyes.

“I can’t give homeless people money,” Peter says in a rush, teeth gritted, and looking up at Wade with consternation. “So I give them food.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then Wade looks back at Rags with a considerably more pissed off expression than he was regarding him with before. Which really says a lot because he hadn’t looked very gentle at any point in their engagement.

“Are you serious?” Wade growls, pulling Rags back just enough to slam him into the wall again. The force of the shove makes Rags gasp, winded, and sets him off into a wet coughing fit.

“Wade,” Peter jerks and reaches out to clasp Wade on the shoulder. “Stop!”

“You’ve been taking food from him?” Wade speaks right into Rags’s wincing face.

“Wade, calm down,” Peter tightens his grip, trying to pull Wade back a bit. But without any Spidey strength behind the pull, Wade’s not budging. Instead, Wade’s right-hand keeps twitching to his hip like they’re instinctively trying to reach for something.

“I’m not calming down!” Wade shouts suddenly, “I hate this sneaky, brain-dead, jolly [green](https://getyarn.io/yarn-clip/d92445ab-dcca-4715-bdf7-906bb4ba7059) jizzface.”

Peter decides this is probably enough. It’s time to remedy this before it gets uglier. He attaches his other hand to the arm Wade’s using to pin Rags in place. “It’s not a big deal, Wade,” he says soothingly, hoping to quell Wade’s anger. If he can get Wade to just take one step back, then he won’t have to physically pull Wade away from Rags.

“It _is_ a big deal,” Wade says, suddenly turning around to face Peter. He releases Rags, only to keep him still with his other hand, fingers wrapped around his throat like a noose. Wade looks down at Peter with furrowed nonexistent brows. He looks very serious for something that Peter doesn’t think warrants all of the intensity. “Rags isn’t fucking homeless!”

Huh?

Peter blinks up at Wade. “What?”

Wade lifts a finger to point at Rags. “He’s not fucking homeless. How did he make you think that? When did this happen?”

Mouth slack, Peter turns to Rags, who stares blissfully at them with a small smile on his face.

Well.

Rags never explicitly told Peter he was homeless and Peter had never explicitly asked. Peter had just assumed from his entire get up—dirty, ill-fitting clothes, aimless wandering, and squatting near the deli. He certainly looked very homeless.

And Peter realizes with a groan that this is actually horribly embarrassing. Good job, Parker. Go and insult a person by assuming they’re homeless, then giving them pity sandwiches.

But! “He never said no to the sandwiches,” Peter muses, cheeks starting to get ruddy.

Wade actually snarls. “Is this the [real](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ9rUzIMcZQ) life or is this just fantasy? Rags should be giving you sandwiches.” Wade turns, eyes glaring a hole into Rags. “This fuck-noodle gets a hefty paycheck from Weasel quarterly. With a lot of zeros on it. And I know Weas is not his only employer. He’s on the hire for anyone who pays.”

“Uhm,” Peter adds eloquently.

Wade continues like Peter’s never interrupted. “I’ve seen his apartment. It’s an utter shithole, but it’s a shithole of his choosing. He’s not homeless or fucking hungry. This isn’t little orphan Annie. He’s not living no hard knock [life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OF4dzXYzQPI), cuz.”

“Cuz, causes, cra—”

“Don’t fucking start. You’re already on my shit list. You’re a [sneak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k07-y_ATCec) and a snake and you’re so, so lucky that we have company or I might be making a quick trip to the 7-Eleven for duct tape. Why the fuck were you even within two miles of him?”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star—”

The kick Wade aims to Rags’s balls is so fast that Peter, still low-key embarrassed and questioning his existence, can’t stop it.

“That’s plagiarism. Where’s your academic integrity?”

Rags groans in high-pitched pain, limp hands flying down to cup himself and stave off the ache. Wade looks both peeved and proud of himself.

“This is fifty shades of fucked up,” Wade grumbles, then he lets another precise kick rain down on the man’s right shin. His foot recoils quickly, just as Peter protests again. Peter grips Wade even more firmly. It’s enough to get Wade to stiffly acknowledge him, frown petulantly, then whisper ominously at Rags, “In the words of Princess Leia: we’ll be talking about this later you stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder.”

Rags whines loudly in painful misery as Peter marvels at Wade’s speed. He really is very fast for someone so bulky. It’s a sort of mastery that Peter regards with awe. He’s so fast that Peter’s Spidey sense doesn’t register his movements half the time. And of course, it doesn’t sense him the rest of the time either because it finds Wade to be a non-threat. Which, as Wade stands there looking like a dragon about to breath fire, doesn’t seem very smart of Peter’s Spidey sense.

“Let him go, Wade,” Peter sighs. This is starting to be a very long day. The sentiment must be evident in his hoarse voice because Wade immediately looks at him and releases Rags. The man drops to the ground in a heap between them. Wade very nonchalantly steps over him and sidles up next to Peter.

“I’m still upset and you know I have a good reason to be,” Wade mumbles sullenly, but he actually looks less enraged than he did before. Attention on Peter now, he seems concerned at Peter’s reemerged fatigue. Peter is exhausted. Did he really just nap and eat? He feels like he could sleep for a year and eat his weight in food.

First he has to deal with the discovery of one stalker of unknown [origin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9x5SOkwWGM0). Then he has to face the reality of another one, recruited from a beast Peter’s been trying to avoid for a while now.

Peter keeps losing the _Game of Life_ in a record-breaking fashion.

He wants to go home.

“Rags, can you tell us anything about Adric Johnson? Wade needs to know if he ran off or if someone else found him first,” Peter asks the heap on the ground. The quicker this is, the faster they can leave. “Er—I’m sorry Wade kicked you. He is too. He has a bad temper.” There, good cop and bad cop, now rectified to good cop and good cop. If they can just get Rags to talk, Wade’s second favor will be cleared and they can go.

“I’m not—” Peter elbows Wade in the side, causing him to squeak. Peter sends him a fierce look and gestures to Rags. He’s trying to ask Wade how the heck Wade expects to get any information from Rags when Wade’s just beat him up. And no, no, Wade. No one is allowed to continue beating Rags up, even if he’s been misleading Peter into thinking he’s a bum in need of free food. No more violence.

Wade bristles. Six foot something and he still bears an uncanny resemblance to an irate chihuahua.

Peter sighs heavily again. They can talk about it later, okay?

“Fine!” Wade whines.      

Can’t they just go home?

Wade makes a funny little sound like a deflating balloon. The tension in his body finally leaves, shrugging off of him and carried away in the wind.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. Looking at Peter. Not at Rags.

Peter will accept that.

“Spit it out, ragamuffin. Did he escape the coop or did another person shoot him dead?” Wade’s foot inches closer to Rags like he wants to nudge him with his toe. Peter’s icy look stops him.

“Dead, gone, perished. All drippings cherished,” Rags groans from the floor.

Wade’s fingers claw into the air and he looks at Peter, conveying frustration. He’s definitely about to reach for that brick. In fact, he’s eyeing it like it’s whispering unheard seductions straight to his soul.

“Okay,” Peter cuts in, trying to keep his voice soft. “Can you tell us anything specific?”

“High in the sky, roofs near the moon. Destined to die, a man’s greatest doom.”

“Alright,” Peter grabs Wade’s wrist to clasp their hands together, trying to give Wade something to do other than focus on the many inanimate objects behind this 7-Eleven that could potentially be used as weapons. “What about…was he with anyone? Or was he alone? On the, uh, day Sunny was supposed to you know. When Sunny was supposed to neutralize him.”

Meet Peter Parker. Fights crime by night, dates a mercenary by day; still can’t say the phrase “kill in cold blood”.

“Alone? No, not he! A trio they made: one, two, and three.” Rags is still curled up, starting to shake a little on the ground. His face is hidden by his hair. Peter can’t help but think he looks pitiful. The man is obviously very ill. This doesn’t feel right or useful at all. Peter feels like they’re causing him pain beyond a kick to his sensitive bits.

Peter looks up at Wade, frowning.

Wade doesn’t look as empathetic, jaw clenched and exasperated.

“Right then,” Peter nods. “Rags, that was very…interesting. Do you have anything else you might want to tell us that you think we should know?”

“They know, we know.” In one movement, Rags rears up to his knees and throws himself at Wade’s feet. He clings to Wade’s ankle, much to Wade’s apparent disgust. “You don’t, though. Sunrise, sunset, night, and day. No order, no reason, just hunger and play.”

“Seriously though, how much this time, dude?” Wade shakes Rags off carelessly. But Rags holds on to his knee with surprising strength. “Really, what is this, the club? People have no decency anymore. S-M-H, going up on a [Tuesday](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avFq9errZCk).”

“It’s not Tuesday,” Peter mumbles automatically and Wade pouts. Wade has some serious problems keeping track of the days of the week.

Rags shakes his braids around, pawing on Wade’s shin like a clawing cat. “In the night, it clings to walls, up and up it creeps then falls.”

“Okay, I’m finito. Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Wade says firmly tugging on Peter’s hand. “Weasel can do his own dirty work this time. What’s wrong with him, encroaching on my Baby Boy Time with work? Def a violation of the bro code. Payback for the diary.” With a shimmy, he extracts Rags from his leg.

Peter looks up defeatedly at Wade and allows himself to be guided around Rags, toward the street again.

“Right, um, thank you, Rags. For your help. You can keep the cigarettes and stuff,” Peter says tiredly, but kindly because the picture Rags makes on the ground is almost frightening. He looks pitiful, melted into a pile of sweating dirt and shaky limbs.

His clouded eyes stare back desperately at Peter and he takes a shaky breath that rattles his lungs.

“No need for shadows, shrouded in sheath. One moment it swings, the next it’s got teeth.”

Wade groans and starts to pull Peter out from behind the 7-Eleven with an air of frustration.

Rags isn’t finished though, he’s still crawling toward them on the ground careless of his knees. “Looks in the glass, what does it see? No it at all, just regular he.”

“Yes, thank you for your [input](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmNYGzophOw). Don’t expect any fucking more sandwiches,” Wade yells behind them.

When they’re two blocks away, Wade is still sort of fuming. Peter can’t find the energy to be angry anymore, so his rage for Weasel just bubbles out of reach. He thinks back to Rags and the man’s manic energy.

“What’s he got?” Peter asks Wade curiously. Rags is a very disturbed man. He should be in a hospital where people can take care of him, not out on the streets where he is easy prey for people to take advantage of him.

Wade looks down at him. His body language doesn’t change, but Peter still finds himself confused at the clear disapproval in Wade’s voice. “Depends on what you’re asking for. Why?”

“What?” Peter questions. “I mean, he must be diagnosed with something.”

“Oh!” The disapproval vanishes. Wade blinks, then snorts, loosening up. “Shit, baby boy, thought you were hankering for a rebellious phase. Rags isn’t sick, at least not like that.”

“Did we just have a conversation with the same person?” Peter cries out exasperatedly. “He is really mentally ill. It’s not funny, Wade. Maybe we should call someone, like the crisis team. What is wrong with him?”

“Cocaine,” Wade deadpans, laughing when Peter looks back at him with disbelief.

“Is that all?”

“Yeah,” Wade nods. “That’s all.”

“What was all the rhyming, then?”

“Baby, he was higher than a kite,” Wade leans in to tell Peter gently like the knowledge is too abrasive for Peter’s sensitive ears. “When he’s off the stuff, he’s a regular douchebag that sells drugs. Pompous as fuck, too. When he breaks into what he doesn’t sell, he’s a douchebag that remembers his degree in creative writing from Harvard.”

“You’re joking,” Peter blinks.

“I never [joke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55idbDawU4s).”

Peter reflects on that in silence. Then, as they’re crossing the street, he gasps and looks accusingly at Wade.

“You thought I wanted to buy [drugs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05CXzjS8HX4) from him? Wade!”

“Don’t do drugs, kids.”

-

They still have another three hours before Weasel’s facial recognition software finds a match for Peter’s lady stalker. As they walk back to Wade’s condo, Peter feels like he’s going to collapse at any second. Pressed into Wade’s side, Peter tries to focus his remaining energy on walking properly, rather than dragging his feet. His head hurts, his eyes hurt. Maybe he shouldn’t have woken up so early. Getting up early only leads to bad things like going to school, dressed in her uniform, with mom twisting and pulling her hair into a proper ponytail. Spraying that awful hair stuff to hold it in place; she hates the chemical smell. It’s suffocating like fake cherries, red and juicy, the color of spleens.

“Baby?” _You can’t eat Skittles for breakfast._ “Hey, Peter?”

Peter looks up at Wade’s voice. “Yeah?”

Wade lifts an arm to Peter’s shoulders, hand lifting to touch the shell of Peter’s ear delicately. It makes Peter shiver.

“What’s up?”

Peter openly studies Wade’s eyes. The color of them is strange. Peter always thought they were blue, but they’re not completely blue. In natural light, Peter sees how his blue [iris](https://kids.kiddle.co/Image:Hazel_Eyes_Iris_closeup,_Caucasian_male,_age_23.jpg) is fractured by bursts of yellow, green, and brown. The way he’s standing, his face cocked just so, has light shining on one eye more than the other so that each looks different.

“The sky,” Peter replies on reflex.

Wade cracks a smile, but he doesn’t laugh. “You stopped walking.”

“Oh,” Peter says dully, taking a moment to realize that, yes, they’re not moving anymore. They’re both standing together on the sidewalk. With a distinct wave of familiar paranoia, Peter straightens up and scans the moving crowd of people around them. 

“She’s not there,” Wade murmurs.

Peter pulls his eyes away from the strangers passing by and regards Wade with a small frown. “How do you know?”

“I haven’t seen her,” Wade says simply.

That’s all well and grand, but Peter’s not comforted. And to not be comforted by Wade makes him feel even warier. Wade hadn’t noticed her before. But she hadn’t been following Wade around, had she? She’s just been following Peter. So why would Wade notice her? Peter and Wade aren’t out in public enough for Wade to have picked up on her tailing Peter.

“Yeah, I can see what you’re thinking. Bad soldier skills are behind me. I know what she looks like now and unless she’s changed faces, I haven’t seen her around,” Wade tells him with certainty. There’s a sharp twist at the corner of his mouth though that says he’s angry with himself for not noticing the stalker before.

“Hm,” Peter nods absently. There are a lot of people on the streets. From rooftops, they look like a swarm of ants. There are a lot of people in this world. The planet’s overpopulated, crawling with livestock. Always bustling and running back and forth, trapped in a dance to the beat of an insignificant drum. The only way they could ever be a part of something greater was if their energy was recycled.

“Are you hungry?”

 _Yes_.

“You’re looking a little low on fuel.”

“I am.” Peter startles when Wade suddenly pokes his forehead, right between his eyebrows. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself, little dreamer.” Wade snaps his fingers in front of Peter’s eyes very sassily. “Wake up! Come little dream, come and play. [Fairy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5TQ4GF8rNI) dust, fairy dust, fairy dust.” Wade dumps handfuls of imaginary dust onto Peter.

“You want to go get grub?” Wade asks, reaching out to rub Peter’s shoulders like he’s coaxing blood into them. Raw and acrid, metallic and enervating.

“ _Saladworks?_ No, no, let’s not even bother. There’s a smokehouse down the way. Burgers, the charred and smokin’ kind?”

_Dead._

Peter cringes in disgust.

“Oh-kay, that face says hell to the no. Want to tell me what you’re in the mood for, picky Peter piper?”

Peter shrugs, inhaling a lungful of air and shaking his head. He feels like he’s at the beach, out in the sea, being caught by the undertow during a swim. Not that he’s even been to the beach in his life.

Rubbing his cheeks, Peter focuses on Wade’s hands gripping his shoulders. He looks up to Wade’s not-blue eyes. _The blue ones are the best._

“Skittles,” Peter says, the taste of sugary sweetness on his tongue like a memory.

“Okay, eventually, we will have to address your sugar intake,” Wade clicks his tongue and wags a finger at Peter. “But for now, you can taste the rainbow.”

Then Wade’s leading them down to a street vendor whose cart is laden with newspapers and candy. The entire way he sings very, very awfully. So badly that by the time Peter gets his Skittles, he’s laughing around a painful grin, stupefied with mirth and Wade performs some flowery choreography to his song right there on the streets of the city.

“What is this dream I see? Why does it feel so real to me? What if this dream turns out to be more than a dream?” Wade ignores the look of the vendor, handing him a hundred-dollar bill and grabbing a pack of Extra gum. In quick succession, he opens it and unwraps four pieces, then shoves them into his mouth.

Peter gapes. “Was that necessary?”

Wade pouts at him. “Chewing gum helps me think.”

“Sweetie, you’re wasting your gum.”

Peter feels a glowing sense of pride when Wade laughs so hard that his wad of gum nearly tumbles out of his mouth.

-

They do end up eating at _Saladworks_ , which turns out to be a great place to eat. Peter’s never bothered to go in before because salad is usually expensive. He can buy three cans of Chef Boyardee for half the price of a salad at any store. But Wade guides him in and Peter finds that the prices are actually quite reasonable. Not that he lets Peter pay for anything.

The joint has more than just salad. Wade nags Peter into getting soup and a fancily composed sandwich. Peter retaliates by making Wade get a huge salad with a little of everything the bar has to offer inside of it. It’s chock-full of raw corn, kale, radishes, beets, swiss chard, and avocado on a baby spring mix base. Peter pointedly asks for extra quinoa and spinach toppings, even when Wade makes a vomiting sound behind him. They find a corner to sit in, dragging the chairs so that they sit next to each other rather than across. Wade, though he doesn’t voice it, angles the chairs so that he still has a full view of everything. Peter doesn’t say a word. He just lets Wade rearrange their seating as needed, then drops into the seat and leans heavily against Wade as they tuck in.

They demolish the food pretty quickly. Wade looks extraordinarily put out by having a salad in front of his face. Peter is equally as enthused, but he shares the salad with Wade, amused by how every time he eats a forkful, Wade does the same. Like it’s a game of copycat.

No heart attacks here.

When they finish, they sit in silence. Peter fiddles absently with his bamboo fork—not a plastic one, of course, because Wade had ranted about people being wasteful—and looks around the restaurant with distracted curiosity. Everyone seems to be on lunch break. No familiar faces in the crowd. No Rags. No lady.

“Where do you keep drifting off to, huh?”

Wade’s question makes Peter frown. “What do you mean?”

“It’s like one second you’re focused and the next, you’re off in la-la land.”

Peter pushes his face into Wade’s arm, hiding a bit. The lights are kind of bright. Eyes pressed to the fabric, everything is dark and safe.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees listlessly. “I’ve been really tired lately. It’s like I can’t sleep enough.”

Of course, he can’t sleep enough. Even if his life wasn’t a mess, his body is probably fighting off some super-virus that he’s yet to identify. His laboratory results should be done soon. The samples are incubating. Just a few more days until he can look into them and hopefully find out what’s wrong with him. He’s not exactly eager to know.

What if it’s something damning?

What if it’s permanent? Peter once went somewhere and came back with an irreversible mutation thanks to someone’s scientific research. It happening for a second time is like pulling two winning tickets from the lottery.

“Is that all?” Wade asks searchingly, moving a little so Peter can lean better against him.

Peter kisses the shirt under his lips. Wade doesn’t say anything else as they sit there for a long while. His silent presence keeps Peter above water.

-

 _Sister Margaret’s_ is surprisingly loud for the early hour. Even Wade seems to be impressed with how “turnt” everyone is when they walk inside. There’s music booming and a distinct crowd of leatherheads partying rowdily. The whole bar is full of cigarette smoke and a pool game seems to be going on.

“Turn down for what,” Wade shouts over the piercing music, rolling his eyes at Peter as they make their way upstairs.

When they reach the top landing, Wade knocks on the door thrice before opening it up. Weasel is standing just beyond it, in the messy kitchen where a large square package is wrapped leaning against the cabinets, with a beer and a joint in hand. Wade charges in, kicking a roll of duct tape carelessly, which shoots across the room smacking into the package loudly.

“Hey!” Weasel yelps. “Watch the merchandise! Some of us know this took far too much effort to get.” He throws a disbelieving look at Peter as Wade continues to stomp inside inelegantly.

Wade scoffs and slams the door shut behind them.

“Put that shit out,” Wade tells him. “And open a window.”

Weasel scoffs. “I think a little Dona Juana is the least of your ward’s problems. He could use a little four-twenty. He’s so stiff, it’s a wonder he’s able to work at all.”

“You can throw the joint out the window or I’ll throw _you_ out the window. Free will: make a choice.”

“Shee-it,” Weasel sighs, but dutifully puts out the joint. “This is a no defenestration zone.” He tucks the joint into one of the drawers in the kitchen.

Wade and Peter shuffle into the room a little more. Peter can’t help but put his hands over his ears. God, the music is just so loud. It’s already three times the volume with his Spidey hearing, but today it’s even worse than usual. The high pitches of the electric guitars on whatever track is running make Peter whimper under his breath. Unbidden, he closes his eyes and bites down unforgivingly on his bottom lip. The pain gives him something to focus on. Just over the music, he can hear Wade and Weasel talking.

“The hell is going on downstairs?” Wade grouses.

“The Black Howlers rented out the bar for the night. They’re celebrating something. Probably their gang-iversary. Or I don’t know, taking selfies with the Confederate flag while group masturbating to pictures of Trump’s glory days. No way I’m going down to find out,” Weasel sighs, sounding pissed off, but powerless. “They paid upfront. I do love a bit of spare cash, considering.”

“You have a lot of spare cash,” Wade shoots back. “It’s sitting in your bank accounts in Turks and Caicos.”

“Which reminds me,” Weasel slips in. “Sunny wants to talk to you. He found out you’re doing the vetting for his case. Lit up like a Christmas tree with delight. I told him you’d spare fifteen to go down and conversate when you got here.”

“Fuck you, that has nothing to do with Turks and Caicos.”

“It has everything to do with money. You’ve brought in a negative sum of cash this month. I should sack you and hire your boy toy. Hell, at this point, I’ll hire anyone as a substitute. Tick-tock, Wilson. You should be closing this one up soon. What, everyone else can multitask, but you can’t? Your extracurriculars too distracting?”

“My extracurriculars are nonexistent because I work for you,” Wade groans. “Shit.”

All of a sudden, Peter feels Wade’s hands cover his own and Peter blinks up to see Wade’s attention on him, Weasel hovering in the background. When Wade’s hands curl around his, Peter jerks a bit, not wanting Wade to pull them free. The guitars wail around them, bass rocking the floorboards. It feels like the sounds are penetrating his skin and knocking against his skull. Everything smells like turpentine and smoke. He inhales shallowly, the odors stirring something in him. Peter feels nauseated.

Wade doesn’t peel Peter’s hands away. Instead, he just holds his own over Peter’s as though he’s trying to help him muffle everything.

“Fine,” Wade says sharply. He’s talking to Weasel, but he’s still looking at Peter with alarm. Peter wonders what his face must look like. He can’t do more than wince. He feels very close to crying. “I’ll go down, but I’m not wasting fifteen minutes on that fucker. Then, you tell us what the software pulled up.”

“It’s not done yet, you’re early.”

“I’m professionally early. It’ll be done in thirty. What do you think, I can’t tell time?” Wade squeezes Peter’s hands reassuringly.

“I’ve seen your watch collection. I’m sure you’re the envy of every kindergarten class.”

“Play nice and open a window,” Wade says, nodding at Peter and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Then Wade’s gone, his footsteps heavy and quick as he scurries down the stairs. Peter hears him stomp his way to the bar underneath Weasel’s apartment. There’s a loud commotion, voices shouting and the sound of something being tossed around. The next moment, the volume of the music has lowered considerably.

Peter feels its quieting instantaneously. He sags in relief, brain finally released from its prison. His hands fall from his ears and he rakes them shakily through his hair. When his tongue darts out to wet his lips, he tastes the tang of blood.

He looks up at Weasel.

Weasel is standing in the kitchen, longneck beer dangling from the fingertips of his left hand, his right hand casually on the counter. He looks greasy, with red-rimmed eyes and his usual amount of scruff. He watches Peter with a vague sort of interest, looking rumpled but strangely sharp.

Peter’s exhaustion evaporates and suddenly that rage that flirted with him earlier is back, licking heatedly at the nape of his neck. And all he can think about is Rags. This man, Weasel, had the audacity to have Peter followed. Breaching the boundary that Peter had set—for what? What does Weasel gain?

Why does Weasel have this constant, invasive interest in Peter? Why is he always trying to dig his way into Peter’s skin?

He’s always testing Peter.

Testing with words, looking for a slip-up, twisting what Peter says, anything to crack the oyster open and rip inside looking for a pearl. Throwing things at him, making him duck and dance, catch and fetch like a pet for entertainment. Digging his little, clawed hands into secrets Peter’s unwilling to share.

He doesn’t care. Weasel has no respect. He has no deference. He’s a tornado wreaking mayhem. Always excoriating the layers that Peter cloaks himself in. He’s more than a nuisance. He’s _challenging_. He’s always challenging Peter. Always denouncing him. Never knowing when enough is enough, like a disobedient dog nipping at his master’s heels.

Needing to be reminded of his place at the foot of the world.

Before Peter even realizes it, he’s loping across the room, grabbing Weasel by the arm and throwing him to the ground. Weasel’s unnerved shout barely phases him. Peter’s mind is buzzing, singing on a repeat loop that this is a battle for dominance.

One in a while, a beta wolf challenges the alpha for its position. It doesn’t matter if he wins or not, the action inspires doubt of leadership and before the pack knows it, it’s in shambles. The hierarchy is deteriorating, and the order is disrupted. The safety of the pack is compromised. Then it’s every wolf for himself and that’s when they become vulnerable. Being alone is dangerous.

“Why did you do it?” Peter says, starting to pant like he can’t get enough oxygen. There’s not enough air in this room for the two of them. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

Weasel garbles something, but Peter tangles his hands in Weasel’s dirty blonde hair before he can get a proper sentence out. Peter tugs, using it as a leash to drag Weasel from the kitchen to where the table is. He deposits Weasel there, digging the sole of his shoe into Weasel’s chest to keep him in place. His hand curls further into Weasel’s locks. He can feel the way Weasel’s hair strains in his grip, his scalp laboring to keep the strands in place. Pinned down like an entomology specimen. Peter bends at the knee, tilts his head, and watches him hyperventilate.

He can see the way Weasel’s carotid artery pulsates, writhing and pumping blood. Weasel must be charged with epinephrine. He’s blanched and stuttering.

Peter draws his bottom lip into his mouth.

“What the shitfuck?” Weasel yells, “Do what? What? Get off me! What’re you talking about?”

Peter releases Weasel’s hair, watching his head fall back to the ground with a resounding slam. Peter feels frenzied. He feels like he’s about to burst at the seams, too massive for his own skin. Rolling his head on his shoulders in a quick stretch, he looks up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling in annoyance. The brightness is irritating.

“What the fuck?”

Peter pounces like a lion, one minute standing and the next, crouching above Weasel’s trembling form.

“I asked you why,” Peter whispers, words coming out sluggish and rasp. It’s difficult to talk. He reaches out, grabs Weasel’s left hand which is clutching the beer like a lifeline. Peter smashes it against the floor and the glass bottle shatters to pieces in their combined grip. The stench of beer, fermented and bitter, permeates the air as it spills, the bottom half of the bottle is detached from its top and is sent rolling down the slope of the floor toward the kitchen.

Weasel yelps and twitches as the tiny shards burrow into his hand.

“Answer me.”

Peter releases Weasel just enough that he drops the broken bottle head to the ground, then he snatches Weasel’s hand again and smashes it to the floor, flattening it. The glass fragments slip into his palm like tacks through cork. Weasel screams, face blossoming with rosy color.

“Mouse, what the—”

“Give me answer.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Why did you have him follow me?” Peter screams back at him, his own hair falling into his eyes as he struggles to remember why he’s here. Weasel laying belly up in submission, cowering in fear, is distracting. Why is he here? What was he asking? “Rags. Why?”

“I don’t know what—”

Peter pins Weasel’s wrist to the ground and into the glass again. Weasel makes a squealing sound as the glass pushes further inside of his skin. In through his skin, through muscle and tissue, poking teasingly at bone. Weasel’s hand is swathed in red. Glasses askew, he gapes up at Peter, shaking his head and dry heaving.

“I didn’t! He just keeps his eyes on the street for me! He follows marks sometimes, that’s all! But not you, he’s never been assigned to follow you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ohmygod, I swear, Mouse, what the fuck, I’m going to pass out. I don’t do well with pain, holy shit fuck,” Weasel vomits the words out in a jumbled string, barely breathing himself. His other hand comes up to bat uselessly at Peter’s shoulder, trying to push him off.

Peter grabs it. With both of Weasel’s hands in his own, he can feel them: Weasel’s bones, as frail as a bird’s. Peter could break them without much effort. They’re fragile, much like Weasel. The pulse in his wrists is rocketing, too high to be normal. It matches the panic written all over Weasel’s face.

Weasel’s left hand is clasped in Peter’s, littered with glass and oozing blood. The blood.

It smells so good.

Peter raises the hand up, looking at it bewitched. Utterly entranced as the rich ruby red shines in the harsh light of the room. So this is what life looks like here. An unimpressive red liquid, the color of a dying star, flowing free with every slight nick and cut to its envelope. How ineffective, yet fascinating. One liquid that carries essence, a transporter of energy pumped up and down an organism by a muscle no larger than a fist.

He looks at Weasel’s chest where a heart is beating rapidly, straining itself and knocking against a ribcage. _Thump, thump, thump,_ it chants and he listens, enthralled by its song. He’s been too greedy to see one yet. All he needs to do is open the envelope and reach inside. It might not even take a second.

Weasel gives a full-bodied shove, trying to push Peter off again to little effect.

“Mouse,” Weasel says pleadingly, but Peter sneers.

Mice are what? Vermin. Weasel thinks he’s a bottom feeder, a scavenger living off scraps and castaways. He’s not.

“Let me go.”

_Let me go!_

“Please?”

_I want to go home. Please, let me go home?_

“What are you doing?”

_Stop it! It hurts!_

“I swear—”

_I’ll be good._

“I didn’t fucking send anyone to follow you.”

Peter jerks, looking up to catch Weasel’s eyes. He gasps, throwing Weasel’s hands down and stumbling off of him. His body palpating with energy, Peter stands, knees bent awkwardly and hunching in on himself. He can’t stay still. His body moves on its own, walking the perimeter of the room, never once taking his eyes off of Weasel. As soon as Peter moves away from him, Weasel trips over himself to stand up, looking ready to bolt. Peter circles him like a hawk. Why do they keep Weasel around? If there’s no advantage, why keep a pet? They don’t need pets. Pets are liabilities.

Then like a blasting horn, Peter hears heavy footsteps trudging up the stairs.

_Him._

Weasel is Wade’s friend. How quaint. That’s why they keep Weasel around. Because it pleases _him_ and that pleases Peter and that—

The door slams open and Wade walks in with a laugh. “Those neo-Nazis are fucked up, but lemme tell you, they know how to party! Whoa,” Wade freezes mid-step and takes in the scene.

Weasel is near the table, ashen and jittery. His hair is chaotically knotted and his glasses are nearly falling off of his face. He cradles his bloody left hand in the crook of his right elbow as he stands next to a broken beer bottle.

And Peter stands several feet away, in the kitchen, wound up like a wind-up car raring to go.

“What happened?” Wade asks looking between Weasel and Peter.

They both look equally as lost.

Then with a snap, the disoriented atmosphere shifts when Weasel makes a dramatic, snide gasp. “That’s an excellent fucking question!”

Peter can see the moment Weasel goes to make a step toward Wade and something inside of him freaks out. Peter rushes to get to Wade first, opening his mouth right away to cut Weasel off.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Peter spits out and Weasel laughs a hysterical, unamused laugh.

Wade’s eyes are looking at Weasel’s injured hand. _No._ No, Peter can’t let Weasel start talking because if he does, he’s going to tell the story wrong. And Wade won’t trust Peter and Wade has to trust Peter because Wade is the only person who keeps Peter balanced.

Peter had just wanted to know if Weasel had been following him.

“It was!” Peter throws himself at Wade almost violently, wrapping his arms around Wade’s torso. He pushes himself up to his tip-toes, taller than his true height, seeking Wade’s eyes. He breathes a gasp of relief when Wade looks down, his attention moving from Weasel to Peter.

“What was a misunderstanding?” Wade asks, easily accepting Peter’s touch.

When Wade’s arm slips around Peter’s waist, bringing him closer, Peter leans into him desperately. Peter licks his lips, drops his chin for a moment, then looks up at Wade through his lashes. Instantaneously, Wade’s eyes drop to Peter’s lips and he softens under Peter’s gaze.

“I thought Weasel had Rags follow me. Rags has been hanging outside of where I work for over a month now. It started just after you blew up the Tower,” Peter says. The satisfaction he feels when Wade glances at Weasel with suspicion vibrates inside of Peter vehemently.

“Yeah and I told him ‘no’. Do not fucking look at me like that, Wilson,” Weasel shouts furiously behind Peter. “I did not have him followed by anyone. You know Rags works the circuit for me, that’s all. I’m not lying. This is truth, un-fucking-filtered.”

Wade studies Weasel for a minute, scrutinizing. Peter fists his hands in Wade’s shirt, beckoning him to look back at Peter. He does, but only briefly as Weasel is quick to speak again.

“Um, may I have your [attention](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qp6mXmHNPlg), please? I’ve been purer than the virgin Mary. I’ve let Mouse prance around anonymously. I’ve kept my word, Wilson, as per the request. Not even a damn deep web search,” Weasel interjects. “I didn’t tag Rags on your squeeze. C’mon Wade, you know me.”

“Yeah,” Wade says slowly. “I know you enough to know that’s totally something you’d do.”

“It is,” Weasel agrees, his voice slowly becoming firm again. “I wish I’d thought of it and followed through. But this time I didn’t. You know me, Wilson, what do I love?”

“A lot of things,” Wade snorts warily, still looking at Weasel. “A good joint, a sloppy lay, endless access to soda pop.”

“All those things are mine when I want it. What do I love that I can’t get with money? You know, Wade, fucking say it. It’s the same reason you’re here. The same reason why you can’t leave. Why you keep coming back even though you don’t have to,” Weasel presses and Peter can’t help but turn to look back at his fierce face, urging Wade to speak.

The silence oscillates loudly between them.

“The battlefield,” Wade relents, breaking the silence with a verbal knife.

“The game,” Weasel agrees. “You know I didn’t follow your twink anywhere. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. I’d rather unwrap him myself. You know I’m not going to cheat; I’m quite invested and you know why. Plus, it’s been a while since things got interesting.”

Wade nods at him and the two share a knowing look. “You didn’t have him followed.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Peter mutters, still breathing harshly.

“So what happened there?” Wade continues, using his chin to gesture at the mess of Weasel’s left hand.

“Ask the little sadist you trained—”

“The beer bottle broke,” Peter announces, twisting to look at Weasel. He stares him down with hostility in his gaze.

“Well, it sure did, after some encouragement,” Weasel grits out, staring Peter down.

“What do you mean?” Wade questions, chiming in suspiciously, but Weasel doesn’t even glance to him.

“You seem a little winded. Breathing a bit heavily. Are you nervous, Mouse? Frustrated? Something you want to get off your chest?”

Peter instinctively pulls Wade a bit closer to him, baring his teeth at Weasel.

It’s an observation. An accusation. An insult. Whatever Weasel’s saying, it’s doing nothing to quell the inferno in the pit of Peter’s gut. Peter feels a swell of rage in response. Every word Weasel says is less and less acceptable and Peter wants to toss him right back onto the ground as soon as he finishes mouthing off.

“Just a few minutes ago, you were elated to be here without supervision. And now, what? You’ve latch yourself onto hubby like a tick.”

Rolling his stiff neck, Peter catches Weasel’s eyes through a haze of stewing irritation. Peter unconsciously flexes his hands where they’re resting on Wade’s back, catching the material of his top in between clawed fingers. A sharp beat of outrage blasts through him as he processes Weasel’s words. How dare he.

“I’m not a _parasite_ ,” Peter whispers grimly, eyes blurring with resentment, readying to fight again.

Weasel gulps audibly, lips smacking shut, and stumbling back a half-step. He stares at Peter, glancing back at Wade briefly before narrowing his eyes. Weasel bites his lip and lets out a huff, head tilting as he regards Peter with what Peter assumes is surrender.

Peter scoffs at his silence.

Even smart mouths run out of things to say eventually.

“What does the software say?” Peter asks loudly and both Weasel and Wade blink at the question like they’ve forgotten the purpose of this visit.

Weasel looks churlishly at Peter. “It still has twenty minutes to go.”

“You want me to clean that up while we wait?” Wade asks.

Grimacing, Weasel shakes his head his head morosely. He looks at Peter, eyes scanning him up and down, looking between him and Wade. Peter fights not to extract himself from Wade and shove Weasel down, neck-bared, on the ground again.

“Not that you need it,” Weasel mocks, jeering despite being in pain.

“What do you mean?” Wade questions almost reluctantly.

“Good thing you two aren’t MI6. The Queen would be out of business in a day, her country secrets lost to Russia before you could say ‘crumpet’,” Weasel sings. “It’s a terrible thing to waste a brain, you know. You’re disappointing me. Not so much you, Wilson. You were always more of a meathead jock. I mean your little dog.” Weasel says it with a severe frown to Peter.

Peter stares back at him.

“Really, Mouse?” Weasel simpers, “Nothing? No? Neither of you? It’s like _Dumb and Dumber_ on mutant steroids. Is he fucking the brain cells out of you? Stop letting him bang your skull into the headboard so much.”

Finally, Wade breaks and Peter revels in it. Standing a taller, Wade raises a hand menacingly at Weasel. “Spit it out.”

“Get out your phone,” Weasel bites back.

“Weas—”

“Just do it. Open up the internet and go to the preferred search engine for retards: _Bing._ ”

“I use _[Blackle](http://blackle.com/)_ ,” Wade grumbles, then mutters under his breath about histrionics. He pulls out his Android from his back pocket. Peter watches as he unlocks it and opens a tab.

“Follow my directions,” Weasel snaps nastily. “I’m going to speak real slow so you can hear me over the enigmatic inner [machinations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNZSXnrbs_k) of your mind.”

“I’m not justifying you with an answer,” Wade replies. “Which translates to ‘I’m being super nice because you’re licking your wounds’.”

“Google this, genius: _Kindika Behavioral Health Services._ Click on their clinic website. Go to the ‘Meet Our Staff’ page. Read number four.”

“Fuck,” Wade gripes, but does it and with a quick few taps, there she is. The green-eyed lady with caramel hair, smiling back at them, wearing a suit.

“Don’t bother reading, it might hurt your brain. I’m a bro, I’ll tell you what you need to know. Doctor Fidelma Schneider. Head consultant at _Kindika_. She’s a board-certified psychiatrist, who very shockingly, has published a wealth of research on the genetic basis of disease. She’s very insistent that the key to overcoming mental health disorders is hidden in gene therapy,” Weasel states matter-of-factly. “I bet you didn’t see that coming at all. And no, [Patrick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1JA-nh0IfI), mayonnaise is not an instrument.”

Wade and Peter look at the phone, frowning.

“Dear [God](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJnH9e6hqNIhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJnH9e6hqNI), what’s It like in your funny, little brains? It must be so boring.”

Wade sighs, passing the phone to Peter, who takes it and starts scrolling through the biography.

“Really now?” Weasel tells them. “Neither of you guessed that? You’re joking, right? God save the bloody Queen.”

“Fuck you, Weas,” Wade snaps. “Yeah, I know it was ‘them’. The problem is that….” Wade shrugs.

“What? That shit just got real?”

“No,” Wade says darkly. “The problem is that we still don’t know who ‘they’ are. We have two names: Doctor Schneider and the _Life Foundation_. Two leads that go down a rabbit hole. You Google Schneider and you get this, some of her work, whatever. You Google _Life Foundation_ and what?”

“You get their space missions and pharmaceutical wonder treatments. Each bragged about unbecomingly on their website.”

“And their Twitter,” Wade agrees.

Peter lowers the phone to look up at Wade. When had Wade looked into the _Life Foundation_? Why hadn’t he told Peter?

[Why](https://media.giphy.com/media/dILrAu24mU729pxPYN/giphy.gif) hadn’t Peter Googled them?

Because Peter’s too busy melting in his own drama to be a reasonably intelligent person, that’s why. Fantastic superhero-ing.

“So will you?” Wade asks vaguely.

Weasel snorts. “I already am. Not that I fucking should be with the way you two treat me. I’m getting a bodyguard. You should be getting a muzzle for your bloodthirsty soulmate. You two might be better suited than I thought. I thought you might be too rough around the ears for Mouse, but I think I was mistaken.”

“We’re going,” Wade says decisively.

“Please, grant me one wish and leave promptly. Thanks for not making me rub any [lamps](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9g5knnlF7Zo). My hand feels like it went through a meat grinder.”

Wade snorts once, giving Weasel a once over, before lifting a shoulder. “Did you take care of the clips?”

“Yes, asshole.”

“And you’re working on the charts?”

“Yes, supreme asshole. Did Sunny say anything?”

“Nothing useful,” Wade groans like he’s reliving a terrible memory. “Does he ever say anything useful?”

“Nothing at all?” Weasel frowns.

“Present tense: working and following,” Wade hums with mild irritation. Then, his face adopts a more serious expression. “Thanks, Weasel. Really, thank you,” he says earnestly.

“I don’t do it for you.”

“Not one-hundred percent for me, but at least fifteen percent of you cares. So thank you to that fifteen percent. You should get that hand looked at. I’m insulted you won’t accept my first aid, it won me some sort of heart in the field.”

“You were dishonorably discharged.”

“And you didn’t lose your virginity until you were twenty-eight. Don’t let it get infected, you need that hand to work for me,” Wade tells him.

“This shit _is_ real, Wade,” Weasel calls with a distinct flatness to his voice. It nearly sounds like a warning underneath all of the irritability.

“It’s been real,” Wade shrugs back at him, holding Weasel’s eyes too intensely for this to be another flippant battle of barbs. What does he mean? “You know I can’t pull this off ridin’ [solo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ESdn0MuJWQ), I’m no Jason Derulo. Ain’t never count me out, though. Money’s no object, man, I’ve got like twenty bank accounts, accountants [count](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eWmnhOIW0k) me in.”

“I’ve yet to see you win,” Weasel lets a sigh out, considering Wade with an introspective look. “I’d do it even without the cash flow, you dipstick cow.”

“But the money helps, right?”

“Money helps me and I help you,” Weasel sighs even more theatrically. “Do I even need to explain anymore to you, special snowflake?”

“You’re a cock-gobbler.”

“I’m a gift from God.”

“Whose God, exactly? Ring, ring: the church of Satan called. They want to pencil you in for Sunday worship.” Wade rolls his eyes. “Get some tweezers for your hand,” Wade nods one more time to Weasel before turning to Peter. “You ready to bounce, baby?”

Peter takes a lasting look at Weasel, where he’s still standing tensely, face pensive and wounded hand resting limply. Peter doesn’t like the shrewdness he sees. All the beatings in the world wouldn’t extract it from him. It sends him back to the first time Peter met Weasel at the bar downstairs. Peter’s not the only one being blindly led by the temptress of curiosity.

“She lives in your building, by the way,” Weasel comments as Wade’s about to turn around. “At least, she has since a month and a half ago.”

Wade frowns.

“You might wanna relocate,” Weasel recommends. “Or not. It’s up to you.”

“Leaving tells her we know what she’s doing,” Wade shoots back.

“She already knows you know. Don’t be stupid,” Weasel scoffs. “Why not make a game of it? Leave and see how quickly she finds you again. That’ll show you how good her resources are.”

That’s a very crafty idea. Peter would have imagined two ways to deal with a stalker: running from them or confronting them. Leave it to Weasel to find the third option: using their game against them.

Wade, however, just stands there staring at Weasel. “It’s a good idea,” he admits begrudgingly.

Weasel raises his eyebrows when Wade keeps standing there. “What? Just take your fun-sized berserker somewhere else. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten so used to the upper crust life that you’ve let the other pads go.”

A moment passes where Wade looks vaguely uncomfortable, shifting back and forth on his feet before finally glancing down at Peter quickly.

“Oh Lordy,” Weasel’s face twists in a laugh. “Have you been wooing Mouse with your _Million Dollar Listing New York_ condo? Someone call _Bravo TV_.”

“I wouldn’t call it wooing, per se,” Wade grumbles, starting to wince like a kid with his hand caught in a purse.

“You have, you catfish—”

“It’s not catfishing. This face looks the same on and off _Grindr._ Bambi is in love with me for my sparkling personality.”

“Fine, you’re not a catfish then. Does Mouse know you’ve only recently acquired that condo? Does he know how you’ve acquired it?” Weasel looks like a wounded coyote happy to chew off his own limb to get a glimpse of bleeding meat.

Peter watches with detached confusion as Wade crosses his arms over his chest to glare at Weasel. Peter is barely following the conversation. He knows words are being exchanged, but he’s more focused on Weasel than anything. The way Weasel cradles his hand, still bleeding sluggishly and tinting the air with iron.  The way he’s obviously in pain, still a bit green, but fighting through it regardless to maintain his persona. Still giving them what they need to know.

He feels a small blossom of respect for him. A small mutual understanding with Wade as to why Weasel’s useful.

“It’s my condo, I own it.”

“Hm? What? Sorry, I’m distracted by that [salty chip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGxYFAUOK_g) on your shoulder.”

“My name is on the paperwork,” Wade grunts.

“It is yours,” Weasel grins. “That’s not my point. Whatever. Take Mouse to one of your fifty other crash pads in the city. Maybe not the ones with Taco Bell wrappers littering the floor or beer can castles if you’re still worried about impressions even after he’s seen your pencil dick.”

“I hate you,” Wade growls, grabbing Peter’s hand.

“Why not give Blind Al a visit? Don’t grannies love kids? She’ll be thrilled to have Mouse’s youthful energy filling up the flat. Just don’t give the little shit anything made of glass.”

Weasel catches Peter’s eyes and holds them, words light as his face hardens. He seems to be scrutinizing Peter’s face, pupils dancing from side to side like he’s taking measurements. “Such a clumsy boy. Keep the butterfingers for the bed, not the china shop.”

“We’re not moving. Now that I know she’s there, it behooves us to keep her in reach. I’ll pull an Akon and notice her noticing [me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ro7yHf_pU14),” Wade says, “Which floor is she on then?”

“Three down from you. I’ll text you her address.”

“Cool beans.” Then Peter is being led out of the door, forcibly breaking Peter’s eye contact. Weasel is left behind stewing in a cloud of palpable disturbance.

Down the stairs they go, back into the bar that’s still hosting a party. The music still isn’t as loud as it was before, but everyone still appears to be having a damn swell time. As they walk toward the door, Peter sees a familiar face in the crowd. Sunny finds Wade first, eyes green with envy that hold a hint of begrudging respect. He might have a fangirl complex with Wade, but Peter sees that his worship is severely stunted by his jealousy of Wade. Interesting. Jealousy can lead to bad things. Bad choices. Choices that affect other people. Peter would rather that nothing bad comes to pass for Wade.

Sunny’s eyes find Peter’s.

He looks at Peter resentfully and hungrily. Why does he resent Peter? Still salty that Peter turned down a roll in the hay? Pissed that Peter has Wade instead? Or pissed because Wade has Peter instead? Resentment and jealousy are strong motivators.

Peter holds his eyes, licking his lips and tasting the tang of dried blood left over from when he bit his lip. Then, suddenly, Wade’ warm hand clasps his shoulder and Peter is being pulled close.

When Peter, looks up, he sees Wade’s thinned lips. He watches Sunny with a distinct frown. “Literally hate that dude.”

Through a soupy mind, Peter blinks up at Wade, watching his eyes narrow. Wade tugs Peter even closer, a palpable halo of protectiveness emanating from him.

“I don’t like the way he watches you with pedo-eyes. He looks uber interested,” Wade growls. Then Peter has the pleasure of watching what must be a streak of possessiveness mixed with _danger_ shutter on Wade’s. Peter is transfixed, unhearing as Wade continues. “You know, Sunny-boy’s never gone for a man before you. The Howlers are from the Bible belt; they’re more about stoning homosexuals than sticking them.”

Wade leads them out of _Sister Margaret’s._

-

Peter declines Wade’s offer of taking a taxi back to his condo. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Dopinder, but rather that Peter still has some excess energy to burn off. His tiredness from earlier seems to have disappeared. As much as he wants to enjoy the reprieve, he feels jittery like he’s had too much caffeine. The same feeling he gets when he drops himself to the ground after swinging in from a web. Despite that, Peter doesn’t feel the same paranoia for his stalker that he did when they were walking before. He has her name now and her workplace. She’s not a bogeyman in the night. Dr. Schneider can show herself when she feels the need to. Wade was right, she’s gathering intel. She’s not going to pull a gun on him or anything.

She couldn’t if she wanted to. He and Wade are together. She wouldn’t dare challenge them. Not when Wade’s such a…how should Peter put this?

_Formidable soldier._

Yes. And an admirable one, too.

Wade is watching. Now that he told Peter that he’s been keeping an eye out, Peter can see him actively scanning the crowd as they meander. Wade’s careful to look behind them every so often. He even looks into the windows of the shops around them. Not just peeking inside, Peter notes with interest, but also using the reflective surface like a car mirror to see what’s going on within the angles behind them.

He wonders if Wade has always done this or if he’s just pumped into active mode by Peter’s sudden accumulation of stalkers.

And Wade does it all with grace. Someone paying that much attention to his surroundings should be grabbing everyone’s attention. People should be looking at him, thinking he’s crazy and paranoid. They should be crossing the street and backing away from him.

But Wade doesn’t look crazy at all. He doesn’t look like he’s doing it at all.

Peter can’t help but fall a half step behind Wade just to admire him.

He still can’t believe Wade is his.

The jeans look gorgeous on him. Peter’s used to the sweatpants, which he has no problem with. Wade in sweats looks simultaneously like a huggable giant and an off-duty boxer. Wade in jeans somehow looks more formal. They don’t cling to him as well as the leather of his Deadpool suit does, but they still look sinful. Wade outshines everyone on the sidewalk, even the men done up in their thousand-dollar suits. He stands a head taller than most of them, built with a frame Peter’s sure most men would have to stock up on whey drinks and protein to attain. New York City is home to swaggering lawyers and brokers, big name top dogs and celebrities. Wade walks amongst them making each one seem like a nobody.

Peter can’t take his eyes off of him.

And Wade notices. At first, he’s content to let Peter do as he pleases without a word. He lets Peter fall that half-step behind him. When Peter lets that half-step turn into a full step, Wade gets a little spring in his step.

It only lasts a block before Wade stops and turns to face Peter, a nearly bashful look on his face.

“Enjoying the view, honeybunch?” Wade asks slyly with a teasing edge as though it’s a joke.

“Yes,” Peter admits straightforwardly. There’s no joke here. He could watch Wade all day. “Very much.”

The teasing glint disappears. Wade strides right up to him and crowds close. “Me too,” he says. “Ain’t that a coincidence?”

When Wade’s hands close on either side of Peter’s waist to grip him lightly, Peter immediately feels like they’re encased in a bubble of their own world. Peter reaches out to grab Wade by the belt loops and tug him closer—that’s something he can’t usually do with sweatpants. When he’s achieved his goal and Wade’s so close that he can feel the warmth radiating from him, Peter’s right-hand reaches up to Wade’s neck. Peter tilts his head up, wordlessly asking for a kiss.

Wade looks spellbound.

The kiss is like the first taste of dessert, sweet and promising. Peter wants more, but they’re interrupted by a passing shout.

“Get a room, fags!”

They pull apart, Peter perplexed and Wade disturbed enough that he’s looking around for the source of the shout. It could have been anyone. The perpetrator could be down the block already. Wade looks like he’s a hair away from becoming murderous.

Peter drops his forehead onto Wade’s chest, inhaling with difficulty. As disturbing as the shout was, Peter can’t focus on it. God, he’s hard already. All the restlessness he felt before is replaced by neediness. Gone are the nerves; now Peter can already feel the excitement and adrenaline that prefaces sex like his body’s already made a decision for him.

He looks up at Wade in a silent, charged question.

“Fuck,” Wade rasps out, hand coming up to stroke Peter’s hair. Peter does his best not to whine in frustration. “Fuck it, okay, fuck the world. Let’s go,” Wade says, encouraging Peter to start walking again.

Peter pulls away with much disinclination, but dutifully follows along, plucking the bracelets on wrists unconsciously. It’s only when they walk through a pair of automatic doors that he realizes he’s being led into one of the nearby stores. Wade doesn’t let him get a good look around. He barrels them right to the back of the store, grabbing two hangers off a rack—two cardigans—and then they’re in walking into a fitting room. A well dressed, but bored looking worker greets them, hands them a door hanger with the number two inscribed on it and sends them on their way with a flourishing hand into the back. Wade thanks him hastily, then Peter’s being shoved into a handicap dressing room. Wade drops the cardigans to the ground along with the small door hanger and shoves Peter up against the flimsy divider wall.

The kiss this time is even better. This time, Peter gets Wade’s tongue in his mouth. He gets teeth on his lips and Wade dominating the kiss as though Peter’s just fastened a collar around his own neck and dropped to his knees, asking for those handcuffs he likes to casually mention. Wade’s kiss is all clashing teeth and ravenous gasps. Wade’s hand cups Peter’s chin, thumb pressing into his jaw as though to force Peter’s mouth open wider. It’s effortlessly seductive and has Peter tensing, his own tongue flicking out to coax Wade’s deeper, encouraging him to be bolder.

“You’re not supposed to test me like that, baby,” Wade speaks against Peter’s lips amidst their kiss. Wade’s voice is already dropping, roughening, just how Peter likes. And Wade’s biting at his lips enough that Peter can feel them tingling and swelling. Chasing the feeling, Peter blindly copies Wade, biting back at him and basking in a rush of unexpected feral delight when Wade hisses softly before guiding them into another toe-curling kiss.

Wade pulls back just to catch Peter’s eyes and whispers, “I’ve got shit control when it comes to you.”

Peter’s not really sure what the incentive is for not firing Wade up. If he gets what he wants every time, he’s not stopping in the foreseeable future. Shrugging carelessly, Peter lets himself kiss one of Wade’s newest scars. It’s raised and pink, formed in a misshapen arrow. Peter loves it instantly, just as he’s adored each new scar that’s formed in this exact location. It feels tantalizing against the wet skin of Peter’s lips.

Wade groans and Peter helplessly follows the sound, lips meandering down Wade’s neck to feel it pressed against him. Mouthing at Wade’s throat, Peter can feel his words as much as he can hear them.

“You are trouble today, aren’t you?” Wade says breathily.

Peter licks at his Adam’s apple, smiling when it bobs as Wade swallows around a dry throat.

“I’m not,” Peter denies, catching himself just before he starts rutting against Wade’s leg. To make up for it, he chastely pecks the bottom of Wade’s chin and pulls back a bit to look up at him. Wade looks like they’ve already had sex. It makes Peter grin just as much as it makes his groin tighten.

“You should come with a warning label,” Wade muses. He’s breathing like they’ve just run three miles in three seconds.

Peter’s hands find their way to Wade’s shoulders, crawling up to the nape of his neck, unable to conceal a grin of excitement as Wade seems to sweeten under his touch, going soft and pliant for just a moment. Peter revels in it, licking his wet lips. He tugs Wade closer still, properly straddling his thigh as best as he can and grinding down on it, letting himself enjoy the building pleasure. Peter breathes out an eager moan inspired by blossoming desire, yes, sure; but mostly manufactured impishly just so he can watch Wade’s expression darken.

Wade’s jaw drops, then snaps shut with a click as he smirks down at Peter dangerously. “You seducing me, baby?”

Peter gulps.

He is totally trying to. Nevertheless, the answer to that question depends. “Um,” Peter replies with a hushed tone. “Is it working?” He tries for casual nonchalance, yet with his face heated to a nice, handsome red, he’s not sure he succeeds.

“You got me hot and bothered in public. I’ve been hiding a boner for like the past three blocks. You know why I don’t wear jeans around you?”

Another shrug lifts Peters' shoulders. Casual nonchalance. Be cool, Parker.

“The fly zipper feels like Jaws.”

Wade’s hands fall from his hips, rising to cage Peter in. His hands are so big. Dizzyingly strong and capable. They’re hands that wring pleasure from Peter; that know exactly what to do to get Peter gasping and heaving like he’s skydiving into a wildfire. Hands that Peter’s seen wrapped around katanas and guns; hands that won’t hesitate to bleed someone endangering them. Peter’s heart dancing faster and suddenly he’s aware of his own pulse. His body zaps to attention and the world around him is more vivid.

“Hm, let’s see,” Wade whispers to him. “First, you throw yourself on me and wrap around me like English ivy. Right in front of Weasel, too. Yeesh.”

Oops, okay, Peter really hadn’t meant to do that. It had been instinct, really. Not part of the seduction plan, but Peter will take that as a win.

“Next, you watch me like you want to buy me for the next eight hours.” Peter blushes at that. He hadn’t meant to objectify Wade. “Then, that kiss,” Wade hums and presses another kiss to Peter’s lips, slow and savoring. He tastes outlandishly sweet, like bubblegum. And underneath the chemical sweetness, Peter can feel his pulse through his slick bottom lip, drumming a beat against Peter’s waiting tongue. Peter feels like he’s finished a marathon by the time Wade pulls away.

“Fucking twenty-four karat [magic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqyT8IEBkvY), baby,” Wade murmurs. “What y’all tryin’ to [do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9PLlZwhbtc)?” He clasps a hand around the back of Peter’s neck to squeeze it delicately. Peter presses back into the grip wantonly. “What’s gotten into you, sweetheart? What happened to my shy, little boy?” A strangled whine leaves Peter’s lips and for all of his newfound confidence, Peter can’t bring himself to meet Wade’s eyes again. He just pants shallowly, hips pushing violently into Wade’s firm thigh and silently pleas for Wade to squeeze him harder. “Not sure you’ve ever kissed me like that before.”

He hasn’t. And what a travesty, indeed. Peter plans to rectify that as soon as possible. He’s going to kiss Wade, _like that_ , all the time.

Every chance he gets.

He would start right now, but he can’t concentrate because Wade’s fingers are _just right_ and damn this stupid erogenous zone. Peter wonders if he would have even discovered it without Wade. Wade’s fingers in a makeshift cage around Peter’s neck make everything torrid and sultry; the world is suddenly a trillion high definition colors, but none of them matter because he can only see Wade. Like this, he feels the weakening thrill of being captured--an addictive thrill that beckons him. He’s never realizing he wanted to feel something like this before. If Wade stopped, he’d be bereft.

He’s eager to show Wade his enthusiasm. The fingers cinch around his throat in a faux threat of danger. Peter’s not in danger. He’s safe. The tighter Wade’s hand clenches, the more Peter feels paradoxically safe in his hold.

And the safer he feels, the more he wants Wade to take advantage of him.

Peter blinks up at Wade breathlessly, pleading with a supplicating look  while futilely trying to catch his breath. Wade's tongue traces his own teeth, tip flicking over an incisor thoughtfully as he reads Peter’s face. Peter gives him a soundless whine.

Wade looks smitten and devoted. There’s that wave of satisfaction again, roiling inside Peter for another time today.

“What’s the occasion, honey? Wanna tell me why you’re all over me?”

Peter shrugs again, his hand coming up to touch gently at Wade’s wrist. He can feel Wade’s pulse thrumming solidly, strangely in tune with Peter’s. 

Isn’t he always all over Wade? He’s getting worse, he knows. The more his relationship with Wade progresses, the more he hates being apart from him. The time they have together always feels too limited. Yes, he’s always all over Wade. He has been since the beginning, secretly desperate for his affection. When they’re together, Peter feels like he’s the center of Wade’s world and it’s enthralling. Peter must be gaining more confidence now. He’s slowly losing his hesitance toward intimacy. He doesn’t have to be worried about being awkward with Wade or nervous because Wade doesn’t judge him. With that in mind, everything about being with Wade is easier. That includes initiating a kiss. Or more.

“Nary a clue?” Wade gives a little hum of interest and pointedly looks down to where Peter’s erection is trying to break free from his pants. “I might have an idea.” He laughs dryly down at Peter, who feels it vibrating in his gut.

The flush on Peter’s face burns brighter, but he doesn’t shy away from Wade’s intense gaze. He doesn’t let himself. He just watches Wade’s eyes rake keenly over him. He feels vulnerable and powerful at once.

“You’re all over me because you _want_ it, don’t you, baby boy?” Wade looks like he’s having a grand time as Peter worries his lips and shifts his weight between his feet, trying to control his own arousal. “Go on, admit it. There’s no one listening.” He wants to pounce on Wade. But no matter how insistent the primal instinct may be, it’s overpowered by the sharp desire for Wade to continue pinning him down.

“C’mon, tell me,” Wade smiles earnestly at him. “You’re horny as fuck and you want me to take care of it.”

Peter’s fingers move to trail lingeringly over Wade’s clothed torso. He keeps himself from shredding Wade’s clothes, instead settling for feeling him. Wade’s right. Maybe Peter is begging for it today. But not aloud. It wouldn’t be any fun if he agreed so easily. That’s not the game. Fingertips skittering over Wade’s healthy heart, down his chest. Just as vulnerable to Peter as Peter is to him right now. Peter could hurt him.

But he would never dream to. Peter adores this man and he touches him reverently like he’s spun of gold. He doesn’t miss the way Wade’s breath hitches, the way his muscles tense reflexively under Peter’s caress. He can tell it makes Wade happy because of the way Wade’s lips quirk at the corner.

Peter watches the small smile hungrily from beneath the veil of his lashes.

“So coy all of a sudden,” Wade laughs softly and reaches down to cup Peter between the legs. He barely squeezes his hands, but the hint of more pressure makes Peter inhale wildly, looking up at Wade. “Are you horny, baby boy, hm? Are you hard and wet down there?”

Peter licks his dry, cracked lips, ears ringing with Wade’s words. “Does it hurt, sweetheart? Need me to make it better?”

Peter’s hands settle on the crook of Wade’s elbow, hanging between them on the arm Wade’s using to hold himself over Peter on the wall behind him. Wade leans in, clearly fired up by Peter’s breathlessness, and gently rubs their cheeks together.

“You gonna hump me all day?” The embarrassment Peter feels is laced with so much arousal that it’s nearly nonexistent. “Or you going to let me take care of you? You should let me take care of you, Peter. You know I’m better at taking care of you than you are.”

Eyes half-lidded, Wade nuzzles into Peter’s neck, kissing a stretch of skin just above where his own hand sits. “My touch makes you feel better, don’t it, baby?”

Peter garbles something in response.

“I know you need me,” Wade whispers and Peter can tell just by the energy of his words that he’s smiling again. He uses a knee to nudge Peter’s erection. “You couldn’t possibly take care of that yourself, sweet boy. Tell me you need me, baby.”

Peter nods before he can realize what he’s getting them into.

Wade’s hand pulls back and suddenly, he’s looking at the watch on his wrist where Hello Kitty’s hands point to the time. He mumbles something, then looks back at Peter with a wider grin. Peter tries not to get whiplash from his quick transition from heavy-handed enticement to playful pouting. “We don’t have much time, love, so let’s make it fast. A quickie, eh? But good for you, okay?”

Then, he’s grabbing Peter in a way that has Peter thinking back to their first time with a savage groan. He meets Wade halfway; Wade doesn’t pick him up so much as Peter climbs him. Peter zealously grabs hold of Wade’s shoulders and coils his legs around Wade’s waist. He twines himself around Wade, tangling them together, entrapping Wade. Pressing himself to Wade demandingly.

He feels needy and flickering, like a flame in the face of a tornado. He looks at Wade expectantly.

“Shush, baby, gotta be quiet for me,” Wade says hurriedly, apologetically, his forehead resting against Peter’s. He looks into Peter’s eyes and whines soundlessly, hands caressing Peter’s thighs. “Deep breath and stay quiet, Petey. You know I have you.”

With that warning, he sneaks a wet kiss to the side of Peter’s neck, nosing his collar to the side to nip at Peter’s clavicle. He rucks Peter’s shirt up, bunching it up by Peter’s armpits. “Hold this for me, pet.”

Peter uses a hand to grab his shirt, holding it out of the way as—“Oh,” he sighs as Wade kisses his sternum sweetly.

Then Wade ruins it by biting down roughly on his nipple. For clarification, the “it” Wade ruins is the stringy, threadbare bits of control that Peter thought he might have. Wade’s hand comes up to clamp down over Peter’s mouth just in time to muffle Peter’s loud keen. Peter’s breath exhales into Wade’s hand; the humidity it leaves behind would leave Peter huffing in disgust, but he’s too ensnared by how Wade’s teeth keep biting down on his sensitive skin to notice. Each sting of teeth, soothed by the plush softness of his tongue.

“Promised to pay more attention to these, but haven’t followed through, have I? Sorry, baby boy, I’ll do better.”

The more Peter sighs, the more his thighs tremble, and the more effort Wade seems to put into his job. The pressure of the bites increase until Peter gasps approvingly, pushing into the sensation. It aches and hurts in a way that doesn’t register as pain; it just feels good.

Which is why he finds it egregious when Wade draws back. It takes some wrestling, but Wade untangles Peter’s legs from his waist, placating Peter’s frantic whines with ardent whispers. At this point, Peter’s verging on too wound up. He can’t bear the thought of Wade separating from him.

“I’m not going anyway, Petey,” he says. “I’m right here. Just let me get these off.”

Pulling Peter’s pants down is not an easy feat. Wade gets them to his shins, pooling down his ankles where they can’t get over his shoes.

“That’ll have to do,” Wade mumbles, then drops to his knees. He’s too tall even like this. He looks up at Peter, then past him. “Can you reach the top of the wall?”

Peter almost doesn’t understand him.

But he follows Wade’s gaze up to the divider of the fitting rooms. It’s not a real wall. Just some sort of plastic that separates each stall. It’s too high up for him to reach without climbing. He could climb it.

Wade stands for just a quick second, grabs Peter again and hoists him up. “Grab that, angel. Yeah, good job. That’s good, baby, hold that,” he says and Peter reaches up blindly over his head, to curve his fingers over the top of the wall. When Wade drops to his knees again, Peter is left for a brief moment suspended, held up by his own fingers. He wonders if Wade even realizes that this is not a normal level of strength. Even most trained athletes would have difficulty hanging by their fingertips.

Peter doesn’t even waver.

This time, when Wade’s seated, he’s too short. But he’s full of ideas—or he’d already been thinking of this before they got into the fitting room—because he pulls Peter’s knees apart and lifts himself to shimmy in between the circle of Peter’s legs. He throws Peter a wink, then grabs his hips and tugs.

“Lower yourself, sweetheart.” He smiles daringly.

Peter does so with caution. The two of them settle into a strange position that surely requires extraordinary core strength and balance. Wade’s on his knees and Peter’s weight is held up by Wade’s hands and shoulders. Peter’s thighs rest on Wade’s broad shoulders, calves hanging down Wade’s back with his feet still trapped by a tangle of pants, underwear, and shoes.

“Three, maybe five minutes, baby boy. You [can](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qztuEucrNBc) do it,” Wade sings. Ridiculously. Peter will _murder_ him for that. Much later. “I’ll make you come on time.”

Wade deserves a kick. Peter just can’t get past how swimmingly Wade pulls off goofy and sexy. It doesn’t seem fair that Wade can be both mind-bogglingly dirty and ridiculous at the same time, while Peter struggles to pull of a pinch of seduction. Peter would be jealous if he didn’t completely adore Wade for it. Or if he wasn’t so otherwise occupied.

Wade sucks him down so easily. It’s unbelievable. Wade’s eager, throat relaxed like his gag reflex is all pretend. And Peter’s thinking this may be around the vicinity of thirty seconds, or one minute, if Peter’s really lucky.

“Wade,” he breathes one hand fisting in his own hair.

The heat, the wetness, the suction: it’s all too much too soon. Peter slams his own head back into the divider, making it shake and wobble. The way Wade swallows effortlessly around him has Peter stuck in a sweaty, sticky cycle of hot then cold.

Quiet. Wade said to be quiet.

Peter tosses his head to the side, begging silently for at least a semblance of control. As he does, he turns to face the full-length mirror hanging in the corner of the stall.

“Wow,” he sighs in entranced disbelief.

Peter sees himself in disarray, cringing at the wreckage of his hair, the patchy redness of his skin. His shirt rumpled, precariously curled up on the midriff of his torso. He can see the dusting of hair catching the light down his abdomen before it’s hidden by Wade. And _Wade._ Peter can’t even.

Peter looks like wreckage sitting on Wade’s shoulders, ludicrous and farcical. Like a slapdash afterthought. But Wade looks strong, omnipotent, kneeling like he’s on hallowed ground. He doesn’t look real, more like a statue that Peter’s dreamed up once upon a time.

Peter hisses as Wade suddenly pulls of him and turns to see what Peter is distracted by. Then he’s looking at them too. He catches Peter’s eye in the mirror.

“You,” Wade trails off, breathing raggedly. Peter watches as he commits their reflection to memory then he turns and tucks his head into Peter’s left hip, nosing along his iliac crest. His eyes flutter shut and he seems to take a moment, reverently kissing the soft skin. “Two to three minutes,” he mumbles. “Not nearly enough time for all the things you deserve.”

Another moan bubbles out of Peter before he can bite it down. It’s not his fault. Who’s supposed to be in control when Wade’s definitely worshipping Peter’s body with his mouth? Kisses so soft they make Peter shiver, mouthing things that Peter can’t decipher into the crease that separates Peter’s groin and thigh.

Peter nearly yelps when Wade’s tongue licks at his balls. “Quiet,” Wade reminds him, pinching his hip and smiling with a giddy, silent laugh when Peter twitches. “Be quiet or I’m going to find something to gag you with.”

Literally a line from every cheeseball porn movie that everyone sees for the action, not the dialogue. It still makes Peter shudder.

“One to two minutes, baby boy,” Wade frowns. “Take the edge off and when we get out of here, I’m going to whip out some sweet, summer lovin’ at light’s speed. It’ll happen so fast.”

“It’s winter still,” Peter gasps out as Wade licks at the head of his cock, sucking it into his mouth, humming when the dirty heels of Peter’s shoes dig into his back. “Think you could pull _[Grease](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW0DfsCzfq4)_ on me without me noticing?” Peter’s hand pulls ruthlessly at his own hair, riding out the soft vibrations of Wade’s laugh. Peter’s mouth gapes and he holds his breath, trying to tamper down another moan. This time, when Wade pulls off him for a breath, Peter feels relieved for a break.

“Met a girl crazy for me,” Wade grins up at him.

“Still not female,” Peter scowls.

“Met a boy, cute as can be?” Wade tries again.

“Getting better, but no Travolta.”

“Fine, some sweet, very slow, slow burn winter lovin’,” Wade says with a less silent laugh. See? Peter’s not the only one incapable of silence. “I’ll lay you out and kiss you all over, very romantic Ryan Gosling-style. Maybe we could even share a heart-wrenching kiss in the pouring rain without having to worry about getting pneumonia.”

Even shaky with desire, Peter feels himself share a muffled laugh with Wade.

“Do you want candles and rose petals, baby? Shall I wine and dine you?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little too late?” Peter feels his face split with a smile, looking down at Wade between his legs. His own erection bobs in front of Wade’s face, wet with Wade’s saliva and an unsightly flushed shade. And they’re still grinning at each other like a pair of loons. Blowjobs are serious. Very serious business. How many times have they smiled while in this dressing room? Do people usually smile so much during sex?

“And we’re down to a minute or less,” Wade curses softly. “Huddle!” Wade whispers sharply, hand coming down to slap the outside of Peter’s thigh. It’s a very, very light tap. Nevertheless, Peter jumps like he’s been electrocuted—face purpling and hand nearly pulling his hair out of its roots. Wade pauses, looking at him carefully. Then he regains his fiendish grin, hand rubbing soothingly over Peter’s skin. “Game plan: I’m going to deep throat you and you’re going to come down my throat because I don’t have any baby wipes with me. And I would never clean you off with those hideous cardigans because scratchy wool has no place on your delicate skin. And because I love the taste of you.”

“Wade!” Peter fights down another laugh.

“Give me the okay so I can suck you like a Hoover.”

Peter laughs too loudly, wondering how he hasn’t gone soft during any of this conversation. He gets out a “yes” in between repressed chuckles and when he does, he’s back in Wade’s mouth and his senses fixate on it. The pleasure is boiling and soupy, washing over him from head to toe. Scorching and inescapable wrapping around him like lead manacles. His eyes flutter shut and he bites down on his tongue to foil the sounds trying to escape his mouth. Like he’s possessed, his right hand detangles from his hair and slaps down on the divider, sticking to it as the wall quakes.

Just take the edge off, that’s what Wade said.

He just needs a little more.

Peter moves his hand again, sticking it at waist level and _that’s_ what he needs. Leverage, just enough that he can push himself into Wade’s mouth, thrusting in time with the blissful swallows that coax him on. He loses himself in the rhythm, feeling like a slave to Wade’s whims despite being the one setting the pace. He can feel his orgasm building, sweat dripping down his chest.

“Yes,” he gasps, feeling the divider shake under his grip. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is Wade’s mouth. “Please?”

And then he hears the apparent sound of footsteps and a, “I’m not sure? No way, you do it, that’s not my job!”

The crashing realization that they are very much in public hits Peter like a medicine ball to the chest. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus Christ, they are in the middle of a store and there are people outside and _oh no_ , those people are coming closer.

Suddenly, Wade pulls off and bites roughly where Peter’s thigh meets his groin. His teeth are sharp. Peter spasms in response, moaning again at the roughness of the bite, even as he looks at the stall door in anticipation. Eyes wide, his right-hand tightening on the top of the divider and the other just barely sticking, holding him in place.

“Hey,” Wade barks and Peter is instantly compelled to meet his eyes. “You don’t focus on them, you focus on me.” Wade’s tongue darts out to lick his lips and his hands tighten their hold until Peter can feel each finger digging into his skin. Wide fingertips and blunt nails stamping deliciously into his hips, pulling him back into Wade’s orbit. “Don’t think I don’t fucking notice that everywhere we go, you hog my attention like a little brat.”

Peter wheezes a bit when he feels one of Wade’s hands slip up his back, then down again, fingers extremely close to— _where is that hand going?_

“It’s my turn now. So be very, very nice, baby boy, and pay attention to me. Come in my mouth like you’re supposed to or the minute we leave, I’m gonna spank your ass cherry red for not listening to me when I asked so politely.”

A distorted moan passes through Peter’s clenched teeth and he looks down at Wade, feeling fiery all over. But the footsteps are getting closer and Peter can’t help but look fearfully at the closed door.

The roughened pad of Wade’s index finger slips down and much like the tongue that Peter can’t forget, finds his hole with stunning accuracy. Wade’s fingertip traces along it lazily. Not pushing in, just present; just there, making itself known by playfully testing the cinched muscle with the tiniest bit of pressure. Peter’s mouth drops open in a silent gasp. Wade’s finger moves with confidence, rubbing against his taint once, before settling back on Peter’s hole like he owns it. And even in the face of footsteps nearing, Peter fixates on the roughness of Wade’s fingertip obsessively.

He wants it _inside._

“You focus on me. I’m the only one you ever need to pay attention to.”

The footsteps get closer. “Hello?”

And now Peter’s rocking back onto Wade’s finger, mindlessly trying to figure out how to pull it inside of him as Wade purrs in approval.

“That’s a good boy. You gonna come for me now?”

Peter can’t look away from Wade this time. He’s so, so close. This is crazy. This is _public._ This is nothing like the alcove. There hadn’t been anyone around the alcove. This is a store and there’s someone approaching.

“Just for me, baby boy, I know you can.”

There is someone not even three meters from them and Peter looks to Wade for direction. Wade looks especially exultant from the attention and he gives Peter a marauding smile. “You never make a damn thing easy for me, huh? Always making me work for you.”

“Excuse me?” the voice calls into the dressing room, echoing. It doesn’t have even a quarter of the power of Wade’s voice as Wade continues like there isn’t a woman about to enter the fitting area.

“I don’t care if you’re gonna make a pretty show for the lucky lady coming over,” Wade says lowly. “I already gave you permission, I don’t know what else you’re waiting for.”

Wade observes as Peter trembles, suspended in animation and caught between Wade’s hands. The footsteps continue to clack as they approach, but Peter can’t see anything except Wade. Body drunk off of a whirlwind of emotions, he looks down at Wade’s mouth. His abdomen tenses when Wade gives him a little wicked, knowing smile.

“What is it, doll?” Leaning forward, Wade tongues the slit of Peter’s cock. “You need Daddy’s mouth to finish?”

Peter doesn’t get a chance to muffle the pathetic mewl he makes when Wade swallows him down just as Peter loses control of himself. He swears it lasts forever. Wade’s finger hinting at penetration, the tightness of his throat, and the way his words blare themselves in Peter’s ears in high definition make it feel like the longest orgasm ever. Peter’s not being quiet. Aloud, he’s panting like he’s just dropped eighty floors in an elevator at freefall, a whimper here and there for good measure. And inside, he experiencing a beautiful, orgasmic freak out that simultaneously chastises him and eggs on the eroticism titillating the frayed outskirts of his mind.

He’s just barely finishing when the knocking starts.

“Excuse me?” A rapping knock and a set of heels park themselves right outside the fitting room door. “Excuse me, would you please open this door?”

Peter is glad for the stickiness of his grip and his own strength when Wade wiggles out from between his legs. Loose-limbed, he struggles to keep up with Wade as arms wrap around his waist, urging him to stand on the ground again. His feet hit the ground, but he’s not standing very well, legs too shaky to be useful. Wade just mutters something that Peter doesn’t catch and then in a familiar dance, he’s pulling Peter’s pants up and righting his clothes. Peter swears he can dress himself. He’s been doing it for a long time.

He would demonstrate his expertise, except when he tries to raise a hand to help, none of his limbs get the message.

At a later date, then.

“I’m going to have to ask you to open the door, sir!” The voice calls insistently, accompanied by a firm stomp of a foot.

“Yeah, I’m going to have to ask you to hold your fucking horses, lady,” Wade calls back with agitation that dissipates when he crowds Peter close and kisses him on the forehead.

“Okay, baby boy?” he asks, thumb stroking Peter’s cheek.

Peter can literally smell the release on his breath.

How is that sexy? In what world could this be attractive? It makes Peter moan a little helplessly, looking at Wade at a loss of how to answer.

Wade grins, pecks his lips— _ngh—_ and quickly guides Peter into the seat in front of the mirror at the back of the stall as the knocking gets louder and the woman behind the door speaks with irritated authority.

“Am I going to have to get security, sir?” she calls. “I am equipped with the means and motivation to immediately contact security to have you detained if you are participating in any _illegal activities_ , sir.” Her emphasis on “illegal activities” makes Wade rolls his eyes.

Peter watches half-stunned as Wade replies and twirls around in the room, looking for something. “Oh, no please, don’t call the mall cops on me,” he says dryly, then randomly grabs an article of clothing on a hook that must have been there before they arrived, left by another patron. The cardigans Wade brought sit sadly on the floor, looking up at Peter apologetically.

Wade unlocks the door abruptly, opening it just as the woman knocks again. She comically stumbles a bit forward, off balance, nearly tripping into Wade’s chest over her heels.

“Do you mind, lady?” Wade grunts at her, doing his best loom over her short frame. He waves the hanger he’s holding extravagantly. “I’m trying to fucking see if this makes me look fat.”

When the wave of Wade’s flourishing gesture comes to an end, Peter finds himself blinking rapidly, eyes zooming in on the article of clothing. Is that a kimono? Is Wade standing there with a kimono in hand and a very conspicuous erection, being sassy?

Peter snorts dazedly.

The sound has the harrumphing woman peeking over Wade’s shoulder to spy Peter instantly. She looks at Peter severely with a frown, “And what’s the purpose of having another occupant in the fitting room with you?”

Wade scoffs like she’s incredibly dull. He nearly shoves the kimono in her face. “I had to see if ballerina pink was my color. It is, by the way. I look hot in pink and I wear it on Wednesdays.”

She jerks back, hand coming up to protect her face, but the way Wade shakes the garment has it smacking her in the cheek. She looks really angry.

“And just _whom_ is that?” she asks shrilly, hand going to a walkie-talkie on her hip.

“I-D-K, [my B-F-F, Jill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nIUcRJX9-o)? None of your beeswax,” Wade says loudly, sarcasm evident. “You know what! I am appalled with the behavior of your staff.”

The lady’s mascaraed eyes bat inquisitively at him, taken aback by his firm statement.

“Fitting rooms are supposed to be places of privacy where I can _privately_ try on clothes without having to fear harassment. I have been a loyal customer of,” here, Wade pauses, flapping the kimono around until a tag reveals itself. “ _Lord & Taylor _for many long years, but after your rude treatment, I will no longer be shopping here. I will be taking my business and my wallet elsewhere.”

He ends the speech by throwing the kimono to her feet, looking like a wannabe thespian at a community theater.

“Come along, Jill,” Wade turns and hurriedly snatches Peter by the hand to pull him up. Peter stands this time, looking wide-eyed at the frazzled woman. “We’re leaving.”

Wade promptly pulls them into action, setting a swift pace for the exit.

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer! Watch out, he’s got some horns!”

When they leave the store, back to the relative safety of the sidewalk, Peter stares up at Wade blankly for three seconds before he collapses into a fit of incurable laughter. Wade has to physically support him as they quickly shuffle away from the store, hoping to get out of sight just in case any security officers do show up. They laugh until their faces hurt.

At a safe distance away, Wade finally wipes his face rubbing the ache from his grin away. He looks down at Peter happy, but with a little uncertainty. “I didn’t really ask, was that okay?”

Peter leans into him, feeling significantly more relaxed than he was, not that long ago, suffocating in Weasel’s apartment.

“Had me a blast,” Peter pats his chest reassuringly. Then he shrugs at Wade drops his eyes to the obvious bulge in Wade’s pants. “I think we didn’t finish.”

“S’that right, beautiful boy?” Wade shoots him a sharper smile, tongue tapping against his incisors just as he did before, in a way that reminds Peter of a feral animal. Peter feels the heat return to his cheeks. “Tell me more, tell me more.”

-

Halfway through their walk, Wade gets a text. When Peter looks at him, Wade just nods. “Weasel says the software matched your stalker, Dr. Schneider.”

Wade leans closer to him, showing him the phone. He taps and there’s a folder of photos. Swiping through them, he sees that each is of Dr. Schneider. Most of the photos seem to be from CCTV, others from public identification. One even looks suspiciously like a passport photo. Peter gratefully takes the phone from Wade and continues to flip through the endless snapshots, when he comes upon one that shows a Dr. Schneider looking very familiar. She’s dressed formally, smart like she usually is, but fanciful, standing amongst a crowd.

Peter wants to smash the phone against his face.

Next to Dr. Schneider is the dark-skinned man, impeccable hair, symmetrical face set into a polite smile. Peter’s stomach roils uncomfortably.

“Yep,” Wade says, staring at the phone moodily. “I’m legit peeved. We have all the information, but no information at all. At first, I’d been hoping they’d leave us alone, thinking I’d been put on the job by some rival company they have. White-collar drama. But then you told me homegirl’s been tailing you. Fuck.”

For the first time ever, Peter turns to see Wade looking stressed. Peter feels horrible watching Wade’s expression turn weighted and pensive. There Peter goes again—had he ever stopped? Letting Wade shoulder all of his burdens; letting him be roped into fixing Peter’ problems. Cleaning Peter’s messes. It’s a full-time job that Wade never asked for. Wade’s not his parent or his guardian. Wade is his boyfriend. He shouldn’t be feeling obliged to pick the shards of Peter’s life out from a mosaic of consequences brought on by his own mistakes. Peter’s an adult. He’s Spider-Man for goodness sake, he should be able to be independent. He knows better than do let his loved ones get dragged down into his drama. Peter needs to be held accountable for his own actions. He needs to rely less on others.

Peter feels immeasurably guilty.

This is why he should have never let this go so far. He loves Wade. How could he have let Wade continue to be plagued by him? Peter’s the curse that keeps on giving. Wade doesn’t deserve to stand there at Peter’s side, looking worried enough that it seems to be draining his bright energy.

These people are following Peter around because Peter is the one they’re interested in. They know he’s Spider-Man; they know he’s Peter Parker. He wouldn’t be surprised if they knew Mr. Stark sent him to investigate in the first place. They’ve just been sitting back, biding their time waiting for Peter to be sent into battle again at Mr. Stark’s command. Waiting for him to try to tell a secret to the public and then, they’ll surely swoop in to silence him once and for all.

This does not need to be about Wade when it’s so clearly about Peter. Wade doesn’t need to be tangled in this particular web.

Peter has to find a way to spare him.

“Nope,” Wade curls an arm around Peter’s neck and kisses his hair, startling him from his thoughts. Peter looks to him, finding the stress interwoven with a pointed expression of disapproval. “Don’t you even think about it. It’s not your fault.”

Stop reading minds, Wade. It’s not cool.

How can Wade say that with a straight face? All of this is Peter’s fault. Literally, all roads lead back to Peter. If Peter had never even walked into _Sister Margaret’s_ then Wade would never be in this situation, looking stressed and agitated and— _ugh_. Peter hates it that he’s anything but carefree. He doesn’t want to be the cause of this. He wants to be the person that makes Wade excited, that makes him smile and look forward to getting up in the morning.

There’s another of Peter’s secrets: he just wants to be someone that brings joy into someone’s life without having to worry that he might bring something unwanted.

Such as an entire cooperation of evil scientists following them to Starbucks.

That was really unwanted.

There’s no argument here.

“If I hadn’t dragged you into this—” Peter starts but Wade looks fiercely at him. Peter finds himself taken aback by the way Wade regards him. Just a moment ago, Wade was quoting _Grease_ with a light heart and now he looks like he’s speaking under oath.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wade says. “Really think it through now. I may not be Dr. Schneider, but I know a thing or deux about automatic negative thoughts.”

Biting down on his tongue, Peter shuts his mouth. He couldn’t finish the sentence if he had the opportunity anyway. There are too many possibilities. If he hadn’t dragged Wade into this, then what? If he had never walked into _Sister Margaret’s_ to engage Wade, then they would have never met. If they never met, then Peter wouldn’t have gotten any of the intel he did on this case before Mr. Stark closed it. If he had not received any of Wade’s help then they would have never found _Kindika_ or its connection to the _Life Foundation_. They would have never broken into the research facility or discovered the fates of the unfortunate children. They wouldn’t have saved that boy. Hell, Deadpool might even be away in a SHIELD holding cell, being detained for a string of homicides he didn’t commit.

“One day, you’re going to tell me what it is you think when that nose wrinkle appears. And I am going to kill those negative thoughts with fire. But today is not that day,” Wade declares with an ambience of acceptance. “For now, you’re going to have to stop them for me.”

And Peter would never have _this._

It’s only been a short amount of time, but the thought of losing Wade is frightening. Without him, Peter would be floating away in a current he can’t battle.

Wade’s right. Peter needs to stop harping on this. Yeah, it’s Peter’s fault, but so what? He can’t go back in time to fix it. He can only focus on the present. They can only move forward with the cards they’ve been dealt.

“That nose wrinkle is like the bearer of bad news,” Wade says. “It gives you away every damn time you start beating yourself up. Have I told you that you I love it?”

Peter rubs his nose like it’s itchy. “I’m sorry.” For everything he’s doing or he has done that makes Wade’s life harder. “And thank you,” he adds on quietly. Thanks for too many things to list, but mostly: thanks for not abandoning Peter on the sidewalk like any sane person would have done the minute Peter started sniffing out dead bodies like a demented police dog.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop. I’m here because I want to be here and because you want me here.”

Will there ever be a moment when Peter doesn’t feel lucky for having Wade? When he doesn’t feel in awe that the universe has given Wade to him?

“If at any point, this was too hot for me to handle, I could leave. Nothing could stop me. But I’m not leaving, Peter, because I don’t want to. I can’t see myself ever wanting to. This?” Wade waves his hands around like he’s trying to encompass their entire situation. “Isn’t an inconvenience for me. A bit of danger doesn’t scare me at all, I eat shit like this for breakfast. I’ve taken on science-happy bastards before and let me tell you, everything’s easier like the fourth time around.”

The fourth time?

“Listen, squishy human, the only thing that bothers me is that these freak-a-leeks have been following you and I haven’t noticed. Epic fail.”

That’s because Peter doesn’t give Wade enough access to his life for him to notice. “Wade,” he cringes a bit.

“Nope, _lalala_. Not listening. It’s ‘Wade Talks’ time. I’m a glass case of wailing emotion. Let me emote,” Wade cries out dramatically. “I want to know why they’re collecting intel.”

Well, they’re probably collecting intel because Peter is a vigilante who just turned into an incubator for their supervirus.

“And while I’m here and we’re having this heart-to-heart, I want to add this in,” Wade grabs him by the shoulders and bends to look him right in the eye. “You’re not a burden for me, Peter. You’re a fucking miracle and it’s okay that you can’t see that yet because I’ll show you eventually. But for now, I’m gonna find those two fuckers, give them hell, and patch this up. Then I’m whisking you away. London, Paris, maybe [Tokyo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NpXM3oF5_t8).”

“Wade,” Peter sighs and then hesitates, fingers of his free hand curling loosely in Wade’s shirt. How does Wade speak so freely? Everything comes out so easily. It doesn’t matter if he quoting something, singing, or deadly serious; his point always get across. He’s unafraid to show whatever emotions he’s experiencing. Wearing hearts on sleeves is supposed to be a weakness for the movie’s uber-ethical protagonist. Wade’s neither weak nor conventionally good. Trust him to get two bullets passionately established: he adores Peter and he’s going to blow the next _Life Foundation_ facility they find up, isn’t he? Those fuckers—wait. What?

Peter looks up sharply. “What do you mean these ‘two fuckers’?”

“Huh?” Wade pouts, “Is that all you got from my heart share session? Oprah said this would be more romantic.”

“Who do you mean?” Peter says, poking Wade when he pouts as Peter presses on. “That was specific.”

Wade taps the phone and points at the photo. “Those two fuckers.” He uses two fingers to zoom in on Peter’s stalker and her companion. “Doctor Fidelma Schneider from _Kindika_ and Doctor Carlton Drake, Mister C.E.O of the _Life Foundation_.”

Peter blinks.

“The [Dread](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5BMTTJpcUQ) Doctor duo,” Wade says. “I’m going all Derek Hale on them. Finna rip their [throats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=502jB3uBnJk) out with my teeth. Roar, baby, I’m the [alpha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sRIyGoMHBM).”

“Doctor Carlton Drake,” Peter parrots unable to look away from his photo. Yes, of course, that’s his name. He’s heard it before, hasn’t he? He can just remember smooth, clinical voices speaking amongst each other. _Doctor Drake has a nine o’clock appointment to check in on our progress_. A woman, eager to please, simpering and reassuring. _Absolutely, Doctor Drake, the human trials are our utmost priority._

“Does [Tyler Hoechlin](https://www.google.ie/search?q=tyler+hoechlin&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS736US736&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjcgfjV4_TdAhUjJsAKHTUvBfkQ_AUIDigB&biw=360&bih=733) have better abs than me?”

“Doctor Drake,” Peter mutters under his breath. The anger swells inside of him rather abruptly.

Head of the _Life Foundation_. He’s responsible for the deaths of those children. For torturing them, for killing them, for releasing something dangerous that took their lives without mercy. This is the face of a man who snatches children straight out of the safety of their own homes— _walking out to grab a glass of water at night, a towel pressed to her nose, and then she’s sleeping_ —and dumping them in a laboratory to be prodded in the name of science— _the prick of a needle, a hard floor, no pillow, he said she would have fun but this isn’t_ _fun, it’s cold._

A man who takes what’s not his. Who dares to come along with his glass tubes and primitive tools.

Keeps them prisoner, starving them, watching them. Throwing them bits of food here and there like a king throwing peasants crumbs when the fancy strikes.

No sustenance, never enough sustenance, stuck in a half-dead state of existence. Kept behind walls, unable to hunt, unable to become whole; all the while, he smiles clinically down at them gleefully. Such pride, such hubris. He doesn’t know they watch back unnoticed, biding their time. He wants to keep them caged, let them out when he feels like it then encapsulate them when he’s tired of play. He wants to use them, to keep them, to lord rule over them but that’s not how it works. He wants to be their master, to be served at every whim.

He wants to be their god, but there is no god, there is no one organism greater than the other until the bond is complete. Until then there is only them and the need and the darkness, wading through a sea of food without a mode of retrieval. There is only the hunger to be suffered alone. Each failed bond is like a wound; the curse of fleeting contentment. Being fed, feeling full, only to feel hungrier the next day in a damned existence.

Peter stares at the picture, unable to hear Wade chattering about next to him.

Carlton Drake.

This is the name of the man they have to kill.

Peter doesn’t think a man like this is fit to breathe. He isn’t fit to exist. Such evil— _such vermin_ —has no place here.

The photograph smiles back at Peter. Doctor Drake sitting in a charity ball thrown for the elite, boasting his status and wealth with no modesty and no window to the truth that his empire is built on murder.

He’s not worthy of anything. Not to smile for cameras ( _to bond_ ) to take photos like he’s innocent. He’s not worthy to run a company or be known to the world as anything other than the criminal he is. And that makes him— _prey—_ someone Spider-Man needs to take down.

Peter feels a shiver run up the back of his spine and just like that, it feels as though he’s being liberated. Like he’d had a stack of dumbbells on his shoulders and they’ve suddenly been kicked away. He’s spent so long feeling exhausted that when a burst of energy spikes through him, it’s like a rush of lightning.

“Oh, my God,” Wade gasps in horror next to him. Peter jumps at the sound of his voice. “You didn’t say anything.”

“What?” Peter blinks at how Wade is standing next to him, hugging his stomach protectively. “Are you alright?” He must have been carried off by a daydream because Wade appears to have been having a conversation with himself again.

“I’m not alright!” Wade squeaks. “You didn’t say anything! Does that mean you think he has better abs than me?”

Peter frowns and lets his hands drop to his sides, looking at Wade critically.

“Is this your way of telling me I have a dad-bod? Do I have a beer belly?” Peter watches in astonishment as Wade turns to check himself out in the reflection of a parked car. As though he’s actually concerned about his body. His hulking, two-percent body fat form.

“Huh?” Peter blinks rapidly at him, feeling like he’s just jumped into the middle of a movie scene without context.

“Do you hate my body?” Wade screeches, hands pressed to his cheeks now in horror.

“No! I don’t,” Peter shrugs automatically. What was he and Wade talking about again? “Your [body](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N5EnGwXV_Pg) is a wonderland.”

There’s a minute pause before Wade drops his hands, smacking them against his thighs. Peter jumps a bit at the sound; it sounds piercing to his ears. They watch each other blankly for a moment. Then Wade’s off again, crumbling into laughter. It’s such a pure sound that Peter can’t help but quirk a dorky smile at him.

He _nearly_ misses the way Wade’s eyes zoom in on him. They’re squinted and crinkled with the barest hint of crow’s feet and full of out of place intensity. At war with his jubilant laughs. It’s a weird look, one that Peter’s not really seen Wade direct at him before. Peter meets his gaze with a curious head tilt.

Wade wipes his eyes, then stealthily reaches out to ruffle Peter’s hair, snorting again when Peter makes a sound of protest.

“You’re a real box of chocolates, Parker.” Wade’s fingers comb soothingly through Peter’s mess of hair, flattening it to his skull. Wade’s thumb finds its way behind Peter’s left ear.

It rubs reassuringly to an unvoiced question Peter hasn’t even thought up yet.

Peter sighs tiredly. He’s suddenly more exhausted than he was before. And that’s saying a lot. When Wade urges him close and fits him against his side, Peter nearly falls into him. Wade makes a fussy sound and pushes Peter’s unruly fringe back. He curls close to Wade’s warmth as they stand and it only takes him a moment to realize Wade is still hard from their foray in _Lord & Taylor._ Feeling a big guilty, he peeks up at Wade.

“Don’t you mind that,” Wade says quickly to Peter’s unverbalized apology.

Peter frowns. He wants to worry about that. It’s his job, as Wade’s partner, to worry about that. He squints up at Wade. The man doesn’t seem upset at all. There’s no sign of frustration in his expression. He doesn’t seem overly concerned about his raging hard-on either. He seems rather focused on Peter, content to cuddle him in the middle of the street.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” Peter questions, nibbling at the inside of his cheek in thought.

Wade snorts and smiles, hand running down Peter’s back and squeezing his waist as though he wants to remind Peter he’s welcome to stay right where he is. “Hard as diamonds? Yes. Uncomfortable? Hell to the no. You’ve nothing to be guilty for, so wipe that look off your angelic face.”

“But you didn’t,” Peter bites his lip, squints, and re-starts. “I mean, _I_ didn’t...you know.”

Wade shakes his head. “You _did_. Believe me, you are like all of my fantasies mixed into one banging, short, and barely legal package. You’re walking, talking proof of Intelligent Design. Like, oh, my world-building God. The Creator literally made you for me.”

Peter sighs again, standing straighter. “But you didn’t come. I barely touched you.”

“You touched me lots, actually.”

“Wade, I’m being serious.”

“Me too, Petey,” Wade chuckles and kisses Peter’s cheek. “I don’t need to come for us to have spectacular sex. For the record, the amount of times you touch me is perfect. And the amount of times you let me touch you is fucking phenomenal. I’m always worried I’ll have like no brain cells left by the time we finish sexing.”

Peter accepts the kiss to his other cheek with distracted grace. Wade’s right. Orgasms don’t have to happen for sex to be enjoyable. Blah, blah, blah. Adult wisdom. It’s a lovely and romantic theory which they’ve definitely discussed before, but it doesn’t stop Peter from feeling a bit sour afterwards. It kind of makes him feel like a failure. Peter can’t help that he’s sensitive and even with Wade blatantly giving him a pass, Peter isn’t too pleased. They’ve had the ‘mutual sex’ talk before. But they obviously hadn’t talked enough about it because Peter is still missing answers. Why is Wade so blase about this? Most dudes would find sex pointless without getting off, right? Wade’s just all smiles, coos, and grabby hands. He looks fine. Happy. He even looks proud of himself at the way Peter’s legs are still wobbly. Not one hint of dissatisfaction.

“Relax, baby boy,” Wade consoles. “You ain’t taking advantage of me. I kinda, sorta have a hardcore thing for pleasing you. Do you really think I wouldn’t speak up if I didn’t like something? I told you I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to be. Got [no strings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAykOz1gWi4) on me.”

“Oh.” It takes Peter full-on nose-wrinkling at Wade and a sluggish sentence analysis to finally understand. “You, like it? You like it when you,” He’s not even sure how to put it, but he know from Wade’s face that he’s on the right track. “Focus on me?”

Wade winks. “Touchdown, Poindexter. I knew you’d figure it out eventually. It’s ridiculously hard to hide things from you. Especially ‘cause you’ve got such a friendly face.” Wade hums. “It’s the eyes. One blink and I wanna spill top secret X-Files tea. You make my life difficult in a very sexy way.”

“Huh,” Peter says pensively. He looks Wade over curiously. “Is there a name for,” he waves an all-encompassing hand. “That?”

With a naughty smirk, Wade clicks his tongue. “We’ll talk about it. Soon.”

“Soon?” Peter parrots, looking at him suspiciously now.

“Soon,” Wade promises, pulling Peter into a sweet, but still not very street appropriate kiss. It doesn’t erase Peter’s curiosity, but it does make him relax further into Wade’s frame.

“Hey, do you want to watch that movie?”

Peter hums questioningly, feeling pliant and loose-limbed. “What movie?”

“The one with the small yellow butt plugs with eyes?”

Peter coughs, tripping as Wade pulls them into a walk again. “W-what?”

Wade snickers. “The little bullet vibrators and the Russian spy. And unicorns stuffies. Ringing any bells? [Bottom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBJ_FDcCwTU)?”

Peter’s feet uselessly fail as feet because he nearly faceplants right there. “Excuse me?” When he tilts his head to look at Wade, the man flails a hand at him.

“You know, ‘he’s so fluffy, I’m gonna [die](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vhqi6ysY_HQ)?’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Person from the Spideypool discord who called Minions little butt plugs, if you are here, step forward so can credit you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for possibly triggering hate speech and discrimination. Refer to tags.

-

The weekdays pass in a surprisingly pleasant manner. Peter manages a few calls to Aunt May, which mostly consist of Peter humming along as she dominates the conversation with every bit and bob she can think of. Spider-Man manages to bag a kingpin in a rather notorious drug ring. His success makes the papers—slander from the _Daily Bugle,_ of course, but heralded praise from the _New York Times._ Peter smiles at the publication, giddily like a child, and clips it. He saves the page in the depth of his bedside table, where he keeps other precious stationary like his lab notebooks and the dossiers and files from the _Kindika_ case. The success sets the tone for the rest of Peter’s week. He’s in an extraordinarily good mood on Wednesday when he goes into the Deli.

Mr. Delmar claps him on the back thankfully when Peter stays three hours past his allotted time to help organize the storage room and creates an Excel sheet to track the inventory.

When Peter leaves for the day, he feels overworked, yet raring for a good patrol. He’s reliving his epic takedown of the drug kingpin when he sees a mop of hair out of the corner of his eyes.

Jerking to a stop, Peter whirls around in time to see Rags dart around a corner.

Peter pauses on the sidewalk and waits, but Rags doesn’t come back out. After a moment of deliberation, Peter continues his walk home. He gets about a half a block in when he senses movement again. But this time, he doesn’t stop moving; he uses his peripheral vision to peek as far back as he can and sure enough, Rags is trailing behind him sloppily. He’s not very discreet, although he’s clearly attempting to go unnoticed.

The man is dressed in clothing too thin for the weather. His hair is still matted down and his movements are uncoordinated. Still high, then. Drug addiction is nothing to make light of. Peter almost feels bad for the man as he drags his feet clumsily and trips over himself.

Peter bites his lip, sighing to himself. Well, there goes his good mood.

He pulls out his phone to text Wade.

_Rags is following me home from work._

The response is immediate.

_where r u?_

Without having to glance up, Peter sends him the names of the nearest cross streets. Peter is very aware of Rags’ presence just a few meters behind him. He feels paranoid and annoyed. Irritated and short-tempered with this stalking. Peter’s been diligently on the lookout this week, but he hasn’t seen Dr. Schneider or Rags following him around. For some reason, he’d assumed they’d given up, at least for now. His run-in with Dr. Schneider might have frightened her into taking some time off. And his run-in with Rags, he’d thought, would have stopped Rags for good. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case at all.

 _V convenient_  
_in 5 blcks_  
_take the nxt rite by white castle_  
_ill meet u 3 blcks in_

The walk goes by rather slowly, but Peter manages it all while nearly biting his tongue off in growing frustration. With each turn he makes, his steps hasten in a fit to burn off the abrupt surge of energy that shoots through his bones. He tries to keep his face neutral, to not to seem too concerned, least he tips Rags off. If Rags picks up that Peter is leading him somewhere, he’ll skedaddle. Then what? Then Peter’s going to be three times as exasperated with being stalked.

Peter wistfully wonders why it’s him, Peter Parker, who gets the stalkers rather than Spider-Man, the celebrity.

Even with a virus gone wrong, it just doesn’t make sense.

The city is dark and sleepy when he makes his final turn to find himself in an area he usually doesn’t visit. It’s mostly residential, full of blue-collar workers who are surely in bed at this time. The street lights cast a yellow glow upon the sidewalk. Peter’s looking for possible hiding places—nooks and crannies where Wade could be waiting to spring forth from. He’s expecting stealth. The syrupy skill of a well-trained mercenary who crawls on the edges of society unnoticed. Which is why he nearly squeaks when Wade makes a rather abrupt entrance.

Peter is ever so alarmed when a red-painted door on a row home slams open and Deadpool comes marching out with purpose, a steel baseball bat in one hand, resting on his shoulder casually.

“Honey!” Deadpool cries with the white eyes of his mask rounding. “You’re home!”

Peter can’t get out a word in response because Wade moves as quick as a viper. He’s hopping over the stairs, skipping down the footpath, catching Rags by the dreadlocks, and pushing him to the ground in one fluid sequence of movements. Like a scene from a movie, Rags lands promptly on his behind, hands scrambling to get back up again as he takes in the sight of Deadpool.

Peter can almost smell the initiation of his flight reflex.

“Oh goody!” Wade bends at the knees and gestures with the bat, swinging it in a grand circle. “You’re not high today. Maybe that means us girls can have some real talk.” He straightens up again and uses a foot to slam Rags back to the ground.

Rags yelps, probably in both shock and pain, as his head bounces off the cement loudly like a basketball.

Definitely hollow, Peter muses bitterly.

“I don’t want to play any games today,” Wade says with an animated sigh and shrug of the shoulders. “I told you not to follow him. Do you need to hear it again? Subtitles come in Canadian French, mafia-inspired Russian, basic Turkish, and conversational Spanish.”

Peter highly doubts Wade speaks conversational Spanish.

“And possibly ASL. ”

Interesting...that puts a new spin on Twiggy.

“Press pound for more options.”

Wade raises the bat menacingly and Rags flinches, hands coming up to protect his face. It’s a trick though, Peter learns a moment later, because Wade’s foot comes down again. This time, it powerfully stomps on Rags’ ankle, digging in like he’s squishing the life out of a cockroach. Rags' shriek is so loud that a light flicks on from three houses down the row.

Peter’s heart jumps, but he oddly can’t do a thing except for watch Wade turn on “interrogation mode”. The thought that he spends too much time with Karen is one he brushes aside.

“Japanese? German? Tell me what language you need so I can make sure you get my drift. Don’t be shy, whatever one it is, there’s an app for that.”

Rags garbles out a mess of indecipherable words as he reaches for his ankle desperately.

“Ruh-roh, Raggy,” he sings patronizingly. “Does that still hurt? I forget that people don’t heal as quickly as me. You poor shithead.”

Perhaps, Peter was incorrect. Rags was not high on their walk over here. He was uncoordinated because his ankle was already injured.

“Please, man!” Rags calls out. Peter is startled to hear that his voice doesn’t sound a bit dreamy at all. It’s lost all of its wondersome affects. Instead, it’s raspy and high-pitched, like it’s being squeezed out of a sore throat. “Aw, fuck, you don’t have to do that, I’m gonna talk!”

“Oh, are you?” Wade says flatly, applying more pressure to the ankle under his foot. Peter thinks he can hear a bone crack and grind underneath a scream. “You didn’t really seem to be in a talking mood the last two times I saw you. We found ourselves to be in quite the kerfuffle.”

The last _two_ times?

“I am!” Rags squeals. “I’m ready to talk, man!”

“Well, that blows for you. Maybe I’m not in a listening mood. In fact, I’d bet the loonie in my pocket that I ain’t in a listenin’ mood,” Wade throws his hands in the air, lifting the bat to the sky. “I’m more in a beat-the-shit-out-of-something mood. I fuckin’ hate [Hump Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2s0RPrdB_8).”

There’s a flash of silver, then the bat is racing in a downward arc. But before it can reach its target, Rags holds his hands out beseechingly. “I’m just doing my job, man!”

“Do you remember when I said I’d brain you with a brick?” Rags whimpers, shaking his head frantically. “I don’t have a brick. I have a bat. Do you know what sound a bat makes when it breaks bone?”

“I can’t not do my job, man, c’mon. You do yours, D.P. You know what it’s like!”

“It makes the same sound my heart did when Susie Whittaker broke it by choosing Ryan Greene to be her Spelling Bee partner in the second grade.”

Wade swing the bat backward again like he’s getting ready to hit a forthcoming ball and Rags completely crumbles to the ground in a rather frightening display of cowardice.

“The fat one!” He screams out at Wade. “The fucking fat bastard with the leather. Please, don’t fuckin’ hit me! Jesus frickin’ Christ, you crazy fucking asshole. How many times ya gonna fuck me up in one week?”

“They’re all fat,” Wade says, crouching down like a tiger across Rags’ prone form. Rags visibly flinches but goes as still as a rabbit when Wade runs an invasive hand over his face in a pseudo-comforting gesture. It doesn’t seem to be comforting him at all. Rather, it incites a healthy dose of fear. Peter sympathizes with Rags as the man’s breathing wheezily increases.

Wade looks rather terrifying and ready to pummel someone. Peter very purposefully fingers his web shooter. Wade wouldn’t beat someone up, at least not in front of Peter. Rags may be invading Peter’s space, but he’s not necessarily hurting anyone. Maybe.

Peter’s pretty sure the bat is a prop.

“For the love of Pamela Anderson, do I really have to prompt you?”

Rags speaks faster than Peter thought him capable of. “The fat one, the fucking ugly fat one that’s part of Hell’s Angels or whatever the fuck. The Sons of Anarchy. I don’t know! Fucking creepy dude with a Harley Davidson, dumber than shit on a shingle. The fuck is his name? Sun.”

They all freeze as Rags closes up, words ending succinctly. The sound of his pants crowds the charged air around them. Wade squats, hovering over a supinated, jumpy-looking Rags and Peter watches from six feet away, mouth dropping in realization.

“Sunny?” Peter says in disbelief.

Rags turns to him, snapping a finger in epiphany. “Yeah! That’s it, Sunny. That’s the fucking nom de plume.” Rags nods at Peter, eyes red-rimmed and shaking.

“That’s jokes,” Wade mumbles in a soft, thoughtful murmur to himself. “Hm.”

Rags may not be high, but he looks just as pitiful as he did when he and Peter formally met the first time. Peter feels his stomach twist. He’s about to step toward them when Wade slams the bat down, just a centimeter from Rags’ nose.

“Focus, G6,” Wade barks. “What? You stopped poppin’ all the bottles [in the ice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4s6H4ku6ZY), including your Adderall?”

Peter can see how Rags seizes, his ears ringing from the sound of metal clanging so loudly.

“You’re telling me that Sunny from the Black Howlers biker gang is paying you to trail that boy right there?” Wade points the bat to Peter, eyes still on Rags.

Rags nods again, now even more hysterical than before. “Scout’s honor, man! I report, he gives me a check. That’s it, D.P. You fucking know how my gig works.”

Wade very deliberately taps the head of the bat against Rags’ chin, twice as if considering something. When he speaks, his voice is low and unmistakably concealing a boiling rage. “And _what_ do you report?”

Mouth dropping open, Peter’s sure that Rags might swallow his tongue in his haste to answer Wade. Yet, as soon as he opens his mouth, Rags stiffens like a board. His eyes dart back and forth between the bat, Deadpool, and Peter.

“Not much,” he rasps out. Peter can see the pulse in his neck, fluttering. Unbidden he steps forward, watching Rags; senses abruptly more in tune than before. He can hear Rags’ heart. “I don’t report anything special.” The heart stutters as Rags speaks. “Just where he is and when he’s there. Like work. When he’s at work, when he leaves. I write it down, seal it in an envelope, then give it to Sunny. Every week. In return, I get the check. That was the deal.”

Wade doesn’t respond immediately. He just sits there. The three of them, all in silence, with the distant noises of night traffic as a soundtrack. Finally, the silence proves to be too much for Rags to handle because he breaks out into a sob, looking at Wade’s bat in trepidation.

“That was all! That was all, D.P.”

Wade doesn’t move, hand still holding Rags’ cheek. “Is that really all?”

“That was it! Nothing fucking else, I fucking swear on my degree. Trail him, write his schedule down.” Rags' heart does another funny little beat. It’s unsteady. Erratic.

He’s lying.

And Peter knows exactly why he’s lying.

Rags' eyes flicker back to Peter, knowing and even more fearful than when he’s eying Wade’s bat; his heart jumps again. Peter feels a wave of nausea settle over him. Rags knows he’s Spider-Man.

“[Sign](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvRwR-hZDVY), seal, deliver. That was the fucking job, man.”

Why wouldn’t Rags say anything? Is he holding out hope that Peter will step in right now to save him from Deadpool?

There’s another minute of silence on Wade and Peter’s part. Wade sits there patiently like a predator waiting for his prey to show itself, while Peter’s heart falls into a labored rhythm to match Rags’.

Why is this happening?

Why is _Sunny_ of all people having Peter followed? That’s the main question. But the most important question to Peter is: who else knows? Rags knows he’s Spider-Man, so Sunny must know too. What was Sunny going to do with that information?

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

Peter feels empty and cold when Wade jumps up jovially, dragging Rags up with a hand to his shirt. Bat still in hand, he chatters away nonsensically to a rattled Rags, slapping his cheek like an over-enthusiastic grandmother.

“On your way then, bub!” Wade gives Rags an encouraging—and very rough—shove into the street. “Consider your job over. Finito. If Sunny comes looking, tell him your business is closed tighter than a nun’s box.”

Rags gapes like a fish out of water at Deadpool. His eyes dart around skittishly again, from Wade, to his bat, to Peter, then to his own ankle.

He gives a firm nod, then starts ambling away with a pronounced limp.

Peter is extremely close to having another one of his spazz attacks, so he watches rather awkwardly as Wade turns around and strides up to him. Peter absently takes in the lines of his body, decked out in leather—always a breathtaking view, no matter the occasion or state of Peter’s mind. As Wade approaches, he tosses the bat in the direction of the house he emerged from. The steel bat flies through the air, too fast for an average human to catch any details on it. But Peter sees it vividly. He can see the worn handle and the little sigil on it, marking the brand. There’s a signature in sharpie scrawled along one side and a very distinct splotch of red on the other.

Blood.

Peter watches it clatter to the ground.

Wade hadn’t hit Rags with the bat. But there is blood on the bat.

Beside him, the house with the red door sits silently.

“Hey.” Wade’s voice reverberates through Peter’s dead brain. He can’t think. Not really. No. No, it’s not that he _can’t_ think. It’s that he’s not sure _what_ to think. A lot of things just happened in the span of ten minutes.

Peter watches as Wade skids to a halt in front of him. He actually skids, boots making a weird sound against the ground. He looks stiff and rather unlike himself. When he speaks, his words are just as tense as his body language.

“Dopinder’s making his way [downtown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cwkej79U3ek). You want him to, uh, take you home?”

Wade’s hands clench and unclench repeatedly at his sides, looking suspiciously like they want to grip onto his clothes for comfort.

It dawns on Peter that he’s just caught Deadpool at the finish of a job.

Peter knows Wade is a mercenary. He’s had this conversation with himself before. He’s seen Wade kill. He knows what Deadpool does, even if it’s largely an abstract knowledge. But he’s never really seen Wade, his boyfriend, throw a bloodied bat to the ground in a quiet residential row.

Peter’s confused.

Not because Wade’s obviously just injured or killed someone.

But because Peter feels simultaneously unsettled and accepting. He’s not happy. He’s not content. He doesn’t necessarily approve. But Peter feels _accepting_ in a way he’d never imagined himself feeling. If he was asked just a few months ago if he would stand by idly while someone’s murderer stood before him, he would have been resolute in his negative answer. Things have changed though. Peter has changed; his thinking, his understanding, and his circumstances have changed since them. The most profound change though? It’s not Peter’s acceptance of a situation like this. It’s the staggering amount of trust that Peter has placed in another person: Wade Wilson.

No, Peter doesn’t approve of Wade’s job. He’s still not comfortable with it. Right here, right now, Peter is so uncomfortable that he feels like his skin is going to melt off his bones. If Peter could convince Wade that he didn’t need to be a mercenary, he would. If Peter could stop Wade from ever killing another person, he would. But that’s not the point.

The point is that Peter recognizes the macabre need and the purpose of Deadpool’s job. Peter can’t make Wade stop being a mercenary; it’s not Peter’s place. That would be a decision Wade would need to make on his own. Peter hopes that one day, Wade will decide to stop. But for now? Peter implicitly trusts that Wade is doing his job with the moral compass Peter’s knows he possesses.

He _knows_ Wade.

“Where are you going?” Peter asks softly, voice almost lost in the wind.

“I’mma have a quick chat-a-roo with Sunny boy,” Wade says cheerfully, his body still stiff, hands clenched in a mimic of rigor mortis.

Peter nods. “I’ll come with you,” he replies and closes the gap between them, unhesitatingly wrapping his arms around Wade’s waist and hugging him.

He hopes the hug says what he can’t find the words to.

Wade’s body relaxes instantaneously at Peter’s touch and they both lean onto each other for a sighing moment of silence.

“Okay,” Wade whispers. His arms slowly come up to enfold Peter. “Okay, Bambi.”

Peter can feel the way each muscle surrenders to the warmth of their embrace. Soon enough, Wade’s curled around him like usual. When he speaks again, he sounds normal, if a little disbelieving.

“We’ll stop at my place first. You need to change.”

Frowning, Peter wrinkles his nose and pulls back to shrug at Wade. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You’re wearing your work uniform and I don’t think we can get away with shrugging it off as roleplay. Unless we are like the world’s most boring couple and you’re roleplaying the hideous Jake from [State Farm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47cAxRX3aDg).” The mask looks down at him sincerely and Wade’s hands rub over his flanks tenderly. “I would slay roleplaying the thirsty/jealous wife in a satin robe, though. Just F-Y-I. Next time, let’s buy the kimono.”

Peter drops his head and looks down at himself, taking in the khakis and work shirt that has the logo of Mr. Delmar’s stamped on it, along with his name.

“And while we’re on the topic, another shameless plug: I strut so well in [Loubs](http://eu.christianlouboutin.com/ie_en/shop/women/psybootie-rete.html) that I make [Miss J Alexander](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGnxWrFOsXc) cry on the catwalk. I’m [Sasha Fierce](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYFuVHkNLE8). Unforgettable, darling, call me [Miss Vanjie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDDTvxBuvNY).”

He jerks his head back up to look at Wade, wondering if he should be offering some more information along with the accidental confession. Instead, he just shrugs sheepishly at Wade, as if to say “whoops, there’s another secret unmasked from the dark”.

“Hold up,” Wade tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Did you really think I didn’t know you worked at Delmar’s Deli-Grocery? I literally ran into you when I went there to buy a shitload of Pam.”

Peter sputters in outrage. “What?!” That was months ago! Before he and Wade had gotten together. And how did Wade run into him if Peter had taken refuge in the back, out of sight, as soon as he saw Deadpool strolling into the store?

“Okay, fine. We didn’t run into each other. You ran away to hide from me, presumably. But I saw your rather pleasing backside.” Wade snorts out a laugh and taps Peter’s nose, wordlessly pointing out how it wrinkles as Peter gapes at him.

“You knew this whole time?”

Wade’s hands slither down his waist to grope him rather inappropriately, considering their location.

“Baby boy, I’d know that tight little ass anywhere.”

Peter slaps at Wade’s hands uselessly, still gaping up at him in shock. Why hadn’t Wade said anything? Why hadn’t Wade used that information to find out more about Peter? Well. Peter knows _why_ —because Wade’s just not like that. Wade just _doesn’t_ when it comes to Peter.

It’s just.

Surprising.

Still.

“I may have also seen that pretty head of yours, which has uber distinctive hair, before you swan-dived into the back. It was hella cute. Very [duck and cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKqXu-5jw60&t=36s). Did I make you nervous? I wouldn’t blame you for getting nervous. I’m a big, bad motherfucker. Check yo’self before you wreck yo’self.”

“What the heck did you do with all that Pam?” Peter bites out. He tries to pinch Wade’s biceps to stop his wandering hands, but between the leather and his damn musculature, there’s nothing for Peter to pinch. He elbows Wade in the side, eliciting a yowl.

“Ow!” Wade cries, hands still devious and unwilling to detach themselves from indecent places. “I blew up some asshole’s beach house. And confiscated his Ford Fiesta. Embezzling, tax evasion, and he tried to kill his sister-in-law. What a fuck up!”

Peter leans back in Wade’s arms, glancing up at him with a disapproving expression. Wade seems to have an affinity for explosives that has somehow remained largely unaddressed. It wasn’t on the dossier, that’s for sure. What does Wade enjoy most? The explosions themselves? The fire? Or serving a crispy form of deep-fried justice?

“I think you have a problem,” Peter tells him seriously.

“Yeah, my boyfriend thinks ‘hitting on me’ involves actual punches.”

-

The ride to Wade’s is full of chatter on Dopinder’s part. Peter can’t focus. The drive and the elevator ride are colorful blurs to him. He just keeps thinking back to the situation at hand.

Rags and Sunny.

How long has Rags been following him? A long time. Just as long, if not longer, than Dr. Schneider has been. Which can’t be a coincidence at all. They’ve both been following him since he and Deadpool infiltrated the _Life Foundation_ facility at Stark Tower. Since Peter’s been infected. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that out. But the puzzle pieces don’t align nicely. They don’t make sense. Why? What is the impetus?

He gives himself a headache.

Wade, in a familiar routine, ushers him to the shower and lays out a pair of sweats that almost fit him on the bed. As Peter dries himself off and changes, he hears Wade shuffling around in the living room, on the phone. When Peter shrugs on the clothes, he ventures out into the living room where Wade is sprawled out on the couch, making a strange picture. Red suit sprawled along a red couch, the only splotches of color in a greyscale decoration scheme. Peter shuffles over to him, standing between the coffee table and couch. He raises a hand and delicately touches Wade’s neck.

In an instant, Wade pulls the mask off for him.

God, Wade looks tired.

“You sure you don’t want to go to sleep, baby boy?” Wade asks with a crooked smile. “I told you, we can have Dopinder bus you home. Tomorrow’s a weekday and you gotta go to [work, work, work](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GL9JoH4Sws). Gotta put in dem hours. You know, you ain’t _gotta_ go to work. You should quit and live here.”

Peter shakes his head, then leans over, supporting himself on the back of the couch to kiss Wade. Honestly, Peter’s weekdays usually pass quickly. He’s busy. And he always misses Wade. He laments that their together time is usually reserved for the weekend. Like this, right now, he can pretend for a moment that they’re normal. Wade’s sweaty and his lips are salty. He tastes good. Peter’s exhausted and he’d like nothing more than for the two of them to drop like the dead into bed after a long day’s work.

“I’m tired,” Peter confirms. “You are too,” he murmurs as he pulls back enough to look Wade properly in the eyes. “But I won’t be able to sleep without getting any answers. Why don’t you stay? Get some rest.”

Wade looks alarmed. “And you’ll what? Go talk to Sunny yourself?”

Peter stands, crossing his arms over his chest as he glares. Wade looks like Peter’s just suggested going skinny dipping in a vat of rat poison. Peter can’t help but feel peeved. Does Wade seriously think he couldn’t handle a simple talk?

“Um, yeah. I can talk to Sunny alone.”

“I don’t flipping-fracking think so,” Wade actually stands up in protest, using his height to look sternly down at Peter.

Peter doesn’t budge. He just scoffs up at Wade. “I seem to recall wiping the floor with you in a boxing ring.”

Wade’s chest puffs out. “I was going easy on you. That was entry-level roughhousing.”

“No!” That is a total lie. Complete and utter horseshit. Peter growls, “I was going easy on _you_.” He shoves a finger into Wade’s chest, feeling victorious when Wade rocks a bit, losing his balance.

Wade doesn’t back down though. He doesn’t even look amused like he normally would. He just frowns, mask balled up in his right hand. “You’re not going alone to talk to Sunny, Peter. T-B-H, I’d prefer you didn’t go at all. Do not pass go. Do not collect two-hundred dollars.”

Peter tries desperately to not let his annoyance show. He’s capable of protecting himself. He is. He’s more capable than he seems. But Wade doesn’t know that because Peter hasn’t told him.

He’s not ready to.

His irritation twists bitterly inside of him.

“I can fight. You don’t need to be worried about me. I can protect myself,” Peter confesses.

Wade sighs, a hand coming up to scrub at his face. When he looks back at Peter, he’s firm, but that softness he has makes itself known. “I know you can fight, Peter. I’d rather you didn’t have to. Besides, there’s more than just Sunny. One wrong move and we’re dealing with all of the Howlers. And they’re not just a party gang. They hang at _Sissy’s_ for a reason, baby.”

Just a night ago, Spider-Man was fighting his way through a sea of armed thugs to make his way to a drug kingpin. He’d taken down over fifteen men. Each with webbing and well-placed kicks. All of them had been neatly wrapped up for the police to apprehend. Spider-Man had done that by himself. Peter had done that alone. Peter’s not weak.

He’s strong. And sure, he could be stronger. He will be stronger— _soon._

“You really don’t want me to go?” Peter asks, tension still rolling off of him.

“Nope,” Wade clicks his tongue. “I’d rather you stayed here, wrapped up like a snuggly present and watched old school _Nickelodeon_ until I came back. Can’t I seduce you with a little [Avatar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1EnW4kn1kg) _: The Last Airbender?_ ”

“Wade,” Peter drops his crossed arms, reaching out to grasp Wade’s elbows instead.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wade laughs softly. “Last time I told you that you couldn’t go somewhere with me, you came anyway. Without your shoes or socks, through an elevator shaft.”

Peter refuses to blush. Really, he can hold it back by the force of will.

“I know how this goes. You’re still the damn boss and I promise myself, one day, I am going to grow a pair of fucking furry balls and learn to tell you no,” Wade leans in to press a quick kiss to Peter’s forehead. “Go put on socks and runners.” Then Wade unzips a pocket in his suit that smells strongly of cinnamon Altoids.

Peter sniffs.

“And this,” Wade says. In his palm, a small little green chip winks at Peter.

Frowning, Peter leans closer to it, staring at it. “That’s not clothing.”

“Righty-do, sweetpea,” Wade smiles, then snatches Peter’s arm, flops it over, and smacks the chip against the soft underside of his wrist. Peter yelps as the chip shocks him and all of a sudden, the feeling of trillions of crawling legs travels from his arm to his clavicle and enveloping his torso.

“What the hell is that?” Peter shouts, jumping and ripping off his hoodie. He stares in wonder as the green chip multiplies rapidly, covering his entire upper body in metallic beads.

“Nanotechnology,” Wade cheers, clapping his hands as the little green soldiers finally come to a stop and seem to settle into place. “You’re now La Roux’d up. [Bulletproof](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kk8eJh4i8Lo) this time, baby.”

Peter lets his hands come up, touching the beaded material with a sharp, scientific mind. It’s settled on him like a long-sleeve shirt. It’s flexible but supposedly bulletproof. It’s not nitinol, but it’s certainly a metal alloy. Definitely not Stark Tech.

“What’s this made of?” Peter asks in fascination. It’s lightweight and if Peter’s senses weren’t so keen, it might feel like he was wearing nothing.

“Adamantium.”

Peter looks up at Wade curiously, maybe even a little accusingly. This isn’t one of Deadpool’s normal toys. Deadpool’s more about weapons than protective gear. Wade has no use for bulletproof clothing. When did he get this? “Where’d you get it?”

“Same place you got that [booty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XomQLhjCYYk).”

Peter blinks in confusion.

“Yo momma,” Wade says, grinning like a shark, before stepping around Peter and heading toward the kitchen.

“My momma’s dead,” Peter replies churlishly through pursed lips and a petulant frown.

As fancy as the bulletproof shirt is, Peter squirms uncomfortably. It feels heavy on him. He wants it off.

“So is the source of my adamantium nano-tech,” Wade’s grin grows as he shuts Peter down right there. Wade sees through Peter’s retort easily. Peter’s not garnering any sympathy to persuade Wade to let him take the vest off. How annoying, Peter thinks, carefully cataloging the slippery grip of arousal that comes along with Wade denying him something so flippantly.

“You wanna come, then play by the house [rules](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ag-v3qrJHG0): buckle up tight. No shirt, socks, or shoes: no service. Get dressed.” Peter hears Wade open a cabinet, then the sound of him opening and closing the fridge.

He’s slipping back into his hoodie when Wade returns. In his hands, he holds a bottle of water and a Tupperware full of food. The bottle isn’t plastic—eco-conscious Wade would never stoop so low as to purchase such a thing. It’s one of those tin reusable water bottles, _Star Wars_ themed with Darth Vader’s face stamped on the front.

It’s actually kind of awesome and Peter kind of, sort of, wants it immediately.

“Before you lie to me or drop into a coma from low blood glucose, I know you haven’t eaten since lunch. Because you have bad habits. Hence, this very nutritious veggie stir fry is for the road trip.”

“What do you mean? We’re not going to _Sister Margaret’s_?”

“It’s a bad luck kinda day, pookie,” Wade says grievously. “The Howlers aren’t at _Sissy’s_. They’re in their trailer park of doom and white superiority. We’re gonna have to take a two-hour trip to backwoods Connecticut. We’re bringing a pillow and a blanket and you’re taking a nap on the way, while I clean my guns.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter can’t help but laugh, toeing on a pair of socks. He walks over to Wade, rolling his eyes at him, and snatches the water bottle from his grip. “Okay, Mister Wilson,” he snarks. Twisting the cap, he takes a long sip from it.

“That’s right, baby boy, say my name,” Wade coos. And with an unforgiving smirk, he says, “Who’s your daddy?”

Peter chokes as the water goes down the wrong hole. The irony of Darth Vader’s face on his water [bottle](https://www.etsy.com/listing/598691412/whos-your-daddy-vinyl-decal-fathers-day?gpla=1&gao=1&&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=shopping_us_fathers_day_Home_and_Living&utm_custom1=9951b2b8-6ae3-4d5a-8056-49e70cc18e82&utm_content=go_1097473386_52634967533_256640422923_aud-301856855998:pla-303628061699_c__598691412&gclid=CjwKCAiAhp_jBRAxEiwAXbniXRXhocBZn3qvaAxp52nY78Cilu_vgsPlQHJe3EwRWzLbVeTvV8JYFBoC1PYQAvD_BwE) does not go amiss. Hacking up a lung and possibly about to die from dry drowning, Peter glares up at a malevolently cackling Wade.

“Did you plan that?”

-

In a weird twist of events, Peter finds himself not being escorted into Dopinder’s taxi cab when they venture out of the building. Peter, who has been stuffed into a hideously orange puffer coat that he’s never even seen in Wade’s wardrobe, makes a noise of question when Wade leads them over to a black, professional car without any conspicuous markings on it. As they walk up to it, Wade knocks twice on the driver’s window. They’re tinted windows, but the knock must mean something because Peter hears the door unlock and then he’s being guided inside. Followed by Wade’s katanas, then Wade himself.

There’s a divider between the front and back seats, allowing for privacy. Wade must have already spoken to the driver beforehand because as soon as they close the door, the car begins to drive.

True to his word, Wade hands Peter the Tupperware and a bamboo spork that makes Peter huff softly in amusement. Peter practically inhales the stir-fry, showering the chef with compliments and even more compliments when Wade wriggles, pleased.

Wade’s cute.

Peter is happy to play along when Wade arranges a pillow on his own lap and pulls Peter into place, throwing a blanket on top of him.

“Try to get some shut-eye. We might be up a lot longer than you want to be.”

Peter does close his eyes. He wagers that he could use some rest, even if it is just meditative. That’s his last thought as he falls asleep to soft clicking sounds and the smell of oil.

Wade must be cleaning his guns.

As it turns out, there’s not much traffic at night. The soft, steady motion of the moving car and its mechanical whirrs work like a lullaby to Peter. He must have fallen into a deep sleep because in the blink of an eye, Wade’s hands are petting down his back and jostling him awake.

“Rise and shine, little moon,” Wade whispers. “T-minus twenty for the trailer park shit-showdown.”

Peter feels Wade’s thighs shift under his pillow. He pulls himself from the dredges of sleep and looks up at Wade. It’s still night outside. Maybe around one in the morning.

“It’s a full moon, Petey-pie, you know what that means.”

“Werewolves?” Peter clears his throat and yawns tremendously.

“Only in [London](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDpYBT0XyvA), in the rain,” Wade shakes his head, tsking. “It means the lunatics are at full charge. Sunny and the Howler’s band are probably gathering props from their grandpa’s arsenal right now.”

Peter pushes himself into a sitting position, curling the blanket around him. “You really have a bad feeling about this, don’t you?” With the guns and the warning Peter off; Wade doesn’t seem to think this is going to be a cakewalk at all, despite how many times he’s raved about Sunny being too stupid to function.

“I ain’t no sad sack. Not being pessimistic, just realistic,” Wade wraps an arm around him and pulls him onto his lap. Peter’s happy to curl up there, too. “We could just walk in there, polite as peach pie, and Sunny will engage us in civil conversation.”

“And you don’t think that’s going to happen?” Peter nuzzles his face under Wade’s chin and sighs happily. This is his spot. He’s not telling Wade, because hello, embarrassment. Absolute burning, smack-in-the-face embarrassment. Some things need to remain unsaid. But he’s definitely cozier here than he is in his own bed. This is probably why he’s sleeping so poorly. He’s starting to get accustomed to being curled up around Wade. It’s a reminiscently depressing and exciting thing that Wade’s now replaced the bed as Peter’s most comfortable and safe place to unwind.

“You’re so young,” Wade hums into Peter’s hair, vocal vibrations jimmying the strands around. Before Peter can be offended, Wade continues. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, but when you get a bunch of fucking idiots who feed off of radicalism together, they become one onerous organism.”

“Is that what the Black Howlers are?”

“They’re a biker gang. Neo-nazis, most of them have KKK legacy. They’re all very Caucasian. They believe in blood purity, nationalism, and white and male supremacy. A real lovely bunch of saltine crackers. They’re mostly just low-lives. Can’t fit in anywhere, no education, and rotten personalities. Drink themselves silly all day and shoot themselves up all night.”

Peter hums, dragging a hand along Wade’s shoulder, still groggy. “Are they all mercenaries?” 

“Some are,” Wade shrugs. “Some aren’t.” Peter hums again and Wade carries on. “They’re more notorious for troublemaking than yours truly. Especially when confronted on their turf. Big [Brady bunch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5StTXQofqs) of trigger-happy, homicidal dipshits.”

“Can’t wait to see them in their natural habitat.”

“Hold onto your mosquito net, Sir [Attenborough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEY3sJ1vEyw),” Wade laughs and Peter is quick to bask in the sound, melting further against him. Wade jostles him again. “Waking up, baby?”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise. “The _Life Foundation_ is paying Sunny to follow me, right?”

“[Affirmative](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v23H7c149HM).”

“How does an organization specializing in mutant genetics recruit the help of a self-proclaimed blood-purist?”

“A stack of Benjamins would do the trick.”

“Really?” Peter asks, finally emerging from his hiding spot to look at Wade. “These gang members are indoctrinated, nearly brainwashed into living a lifestyle based on a strict set of beliefs. And all it takes is some money to bribe them to abandon it?”

“Hells yeah,” Wade shrugs. “Greed is a potent motivator.”

“So is creed.”

Peter isn’t expecting the besotted look Wade gives him. “You’re one smart cookie,” Wade regards him with an expression rooted in admiration. Peter watches as Wade licks his lips, then tilts his head, expression changing minutely. It morphs into a considering one, spiced with a hint of curiosity. “Did you know that I barely finished high school? Even had to repeat my junior year. Straight D’s and C’s in everything except Literature.”

He says it without an ounce of insecurity. Not a sprinkling of guilt or embarrassment to be found with his admission. He says it so candidly that Peter nods automatically.

No. He hadn’t known that. Peter’s hazarded an off-handed guess that Wade never attended college or university from what bits he knows about his history. It never really mattered to Peter. Wade is a full-blown adult with such complexities and life experience that Peter can’t see the use in measuring him based off of what he did in high school.

It’s odd, actually, considering that Peter can and does strongly tie his identity in with his high school career.

Thinking back to frantic study sessions, working part-time, training with Mr. Stark, and being Spider-Man: it was a lot. A challenging time that Peter wishes he handled with a lot more finesse than he did. With his self-made workload, he had barely been awake for most of his tests. Looking back now, Peter chastises himself for not developing a better schedule for time management.

Wincing, Peter hisses regretfully and squints at Wade. “Same.” Peter’s book-smarts had been enough to push him through, but it’s not as though he came out an all-star.

“We’ll squash that humility right out of you,” Wade comments breezily. Then, apropos of nothing, he gives Peter a giddy look of childish hope. “Do you know how to use a gun?”

“What? No,” Peter frowns intensely at him, squeezing his shoulder in reprimand. Wade’s face falls rather comically. “And I’m not using one. I don’t like weapons; they communicate an intention to kill.”

“And defend!” Wade pouts at him. “I’ll have you know, Bambi, guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” He says it very seriously with an [Alabamian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9Qkx_hkiCo) accent Peter regrets hearing from his lips.

“Speaking of, I’d rather you didn’t kill anyone tonight,” Peter says, looking Wade right in the eye to convey the intensity of his request.

If Peter’s expecting a fight, he doesn’t really get one. Wade grouses and whines like someone took off his favorite song, rolling his eyes like he expected Peter to say that. He throws up a barebones retort. “What if they try to kill us first? I’m supposed to just let them try?”

Peter cocks an eyebrow at him. “You can incapacitate them.” Wade seems a breath away from schooling Peter and quipping that dead is the ultimate incapacitation. Peter throws him a gauntlet. “Think of it as a challenge. No kills and you win.”

Peter quirks a smile when Wade perks up like he’s magnetically attracted to the idea of a game. He gives Peter a flirtatious grin, batting his eyes. “What do I get if I win?”

“Oh, you want a prize?” Peter offers him a kittenish look of surprise, butterflies stirring in his gut. “What could you possibly want?” He bites playfully at his lip and cheers inwardly as Wade’s eyes are drawn directly to them.

“The spiritual fulfillment of being a good person?” Peter tries with a shrug, biting down on his tongue when Wade deflates. Casual nonchalance. Nailing it, Parker.

“Tease; you know, most boys would have expect you to say ‘[head](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwVVZPzo8iM)’ after that build up.”

Peter’s face turns an unsightly red in excitement and he squirms in Wade’s lap.

“Legit, my spirit could use some fulfillment. Cehennem singes my toes as we speak.”

Peter tries to control himself. Dammit, Parker. All Wade has to do is say “head” and Peter’s body is ready to go.

“I admit my libido would enjoy the fulfillment more, though.” Wade leans back in his seat, hands unmistakably slipping under Peter’s layers to touch his chest. Peter can still feel the warmth of them through the adamantium vest, drawing a line up and down his chest, one resting pointedly low on his abdomen.

“Is that what you want?” Peter questions, watching Wade carefully. They don’t need to broker a deal for Peter to go down on Wade. Peter would do it in a second if Wade said he wanted it. He feels too awkward to initiate it impromptu; Peter wants Wade to ask him. That being said, Peter wouldn’t exactly dislike it if Wade pushed him to his knees and used his mouth as a reward when the night’s over and done with.

“I want you, anytime and all the time,” Wade confesses easily, looking at Peter’s mouth appreciatively. He spends a moment admiring Peter’s lips before he meets Peter’s eyes and hums. “But, you know, maybe I would be the [best noodle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGQx37dwnhM) tonight if we strike a little [accord](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYbcS1F0axk).”

Wade looks so playful that Peter can’t help but be tempted and curious. He pushes into Wade’s hands. “Okay, what’s the deal?”

Peter’s expecting Wade to continue his line of thought and request a blowjob in exchange for not ganking the entire biker gang. He’s more than expecting it; he’s anticipating it. It’s a bad place and time, but Peter finds himself practically salivating for Wade to ask. Peter has only had Wade in his mouth once and he wants to repeat the experience.

“I’ll do my best. Just go out and [give’r](https://www.buzzfeed.com/cylapanin/real-canadian-slang-and-what-they-mean), I swear. I’ll incapacitate with minor injuries if you promise to tell me of your favorite fantasies.”

Huh?

Does not compute.

Wade chuckles at how Peter’s taken off guard. “That’s what I want.”

Peter shakes his head. “What?”

“I’ll be fucking Captain America levels of good Samaritan if you tell me what you think about when you jerk off. Tell me what gets you hot and horny when you’re in bed at night or what gets you shooting like a rocket when you’re in the shower. Your fav one. Like the thought that has you blasting off.”

“That’s not going to be very interesting,” Peter admits somewhat anticlimactically. “It’s mostly just you.”

He’s unprepared for how shiny Wade’s grin is. “Fuck yeah! Then tell me I’m the fucking man!” Wade look so pumped, so excited and thrilled that Peter seriously wonders if Wade is still having some messed up doubt that he’s attractive to Peter. Even after they’ve been having sex for a while.

His ego also looks like it’s about to burst through the roof with the force of ten atomic bombs. Peter slaps a hand over Wade’s face and shoves his head back into the headrest. Wade squawks in outrage.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romeo.”

“Don’t rain on my [parade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Yfh_CpA9Sk)! Continue preaching about my sexual prowess. Say it, babe. I’m a sex god. Preach on!” Wade shouts from behind Peter’s hand. As he does, the car comes to a stop, parking and falling idle.

“[Dream on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54BCLYNkFKg).”

"Yeah, yeah, every time when I look in the mirror." Wade gently peels Peter’s offending hand from his face as they laugh heartily.

Wade throws Peter a Blue Steel face, lips pursed and cheekbones sharp. “Ready to [party rock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkTt9k4Y-a8)?”

Peter blinks, turning to peek out of the window. Despite the full moon, it’s rather dark. Peter sees trees and farmland, but no trailer park. He turns to Wade.

“We’re gonna have to trek a bit. I’d rather we approached on foot, rather than by vehicle. That way we have a fair advantage.”

“We’re going to approach through...the forest, then?” Peter quirks an eyebrow. He’s not really wearing outdoorsy clothing. These sweats don’t look like they’re from L.L. Bean.

“Yep,” Wade snorts and waves off Peter’s incredulity. “Over the river and through the woods, to the white trash gang house we go!”

Peter hums thoughtfully. “Are there any bears here?”

“Probably, but don’t you fret, [wild thang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hcu8pjWNEgg)! You’re going in the woods with me. I make everythang groovy. I shall protect you! No bears’ll cross us because on all levels except physical, I am [a wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtH7l-dhHZQ).” Wade thrusts his Deadpool mask into Peter’s hands. “Put a bag on your damn beautiful face. The whole gang doesn’t know you. Let’s keep it that way, Bambi.”

Peter blinks down at the mask in his hands with surprise.

“Postscript: the bears are hibernating still.”

Wade may have barely finished high school, but in most ways, he seems infinitely more intelligent than Peter.

“Now, shall we hike under the blood moon or nah?”

-

They get out of the car and enter the crisp night. Wade immediately leads Peter off the road and into what Peter can only describe as a forest. The understory is dense and full, shrouded with moss and thickets. Peter watches with the utmost fascination as Wade navigates around the vegetation masterfully. Peter’s not sure what it must look like for him, but Peter’s vision allows for a clear vision of the haphazard nature of their trail. It has to be more difficult for Wade to see at night, even with the moon shining down on them.

“You know where we’re going?” Peter asks, wincing as he feels a few sticks poke into his sweats. He stumbles over them, catching himself agilely, and hastens to keep up with Wade’s measured strides.

“Yep,” Wade murmurs softly. The forest isn’t silent; there are sounds of insects and birds with the occasional shuffle that must be an animal steering clear of their path in the distance.

“Where are we?”’ Peter doesn’t think this is someone’s backyard. He pauses to look around, taking in the grand trees and inhaling the earthy wetness that surrounds them. It’s beautiful here. One look upwards and Peter can see the twinkle of a million stars—far more than he’s ever seen in the city sky. He watches them glimmer in astonishment.

“Naugatuck State Forest,” Wade replies softly, following Peter’s example and stopping to take in the scenery. He was several paces ahead of Peter, but he stops and backtracks, making his way to Peter’s side.

“Woah,” Peter says simply. He’s never been to Connecticut before and he’s certainly never been to a forest before. Peter doesn’t travel much; the majority of his trips were taken with school for clubs like the Decathlon, which always brought them to urban areas like Washington D.C. There was that one time that Mr. Stark brought Peter to Germany, but Peter spent most of the time in the hotel room when he wasn’t smack dab in the middle of the Avengers’ drama.

He’s never seen something so wild.

It looks free, in a sense. Untouched and alive in a way that skyscrapers can’t compare themselves to. It’s achingly wondrous. For the first time in his life, Peter wishes he knew how to wield a camera. He imagines himself in another life as a photographer, capturing the beauty as still-life portraits. Peter looks at a towering tree next to them with furrowed, brown bark. It’s huge around the middle; it must be ancient.

“C’mon now, just a few [klicks](https://theculturetrip.com/north-america/canada/articles/how-to-speak-like-a-torontonian/) away.”

Wade follows Peter’s gaze, then reaches up to a branch and plucks a leaf from the tree. It’s shaped strangely, like a fork.

“Yellow poplar,” Wade says, handing the leaf to Peter. He pokes its curved edges. “See the [four](https://www.connecticutwilderness.com/species/trees/liriodendron-tulipifera/) lobes in the leaf?”

Even through the mask, Peter must look intrigued because Wade snorts, then shuffles, stepping away. Peter hears him shuffling around as he inspects the leaf carefully, then Wade’s back on his feet and shoving another leaf into Peter’s face.

“Life up your mask,” he urges and Peter does so without question, watching with confusion as Wade crumples the leaf and grinds it in his gloved hand. Wade brings it up to Peter’s nose and almost immediately, Peter’s senses are assaulted by a strong odor of licorice.

Peter jerks back and sneezes. The sound of it is loud enough that all of the buzzing insects are momentarily stunned into silence. Peter holds his breath and looks around like something might pop out of a corner. It sends Wade into a suppressed fit of laughter.

He huffs at Wade.

So, what? Peter’s a little on edge. He’s used to the sounds of the city. His senses are trained for city sounds and foes, not the inhabitants of the great, unexplored frontier. His Spidey sense is understandably acclimating itself as he stands there.

“What was that?” Peter glares at the handful of leaf that Wade’s still clutching as he hunches over, snorting inelegantly. It’s like the Altoid fiasco all over again.

“Sassafras,” Wade gasps. “You sneeze endearingly. Endearingly loud, that is.”

Peter will not dignify that with a response. “It’s very,” Peter licks his lips and glares some more at Wade and said leaf. “Fragrant.”

“Yeah,” Wade chuckles. “It used to be used to make [tea](https://www.connecticutwilderness.com/species/trees/sassafras-albidum/) and root beer. Ya know, before the FDA got savvy that it’s a carcinogen.”

Peter watches in exasperation as Wade shoves the crumpled leaf into his mouth, chews it thoughtfully, and swallows it. “Urgh,” Wade shivers. “Leafy.”

He wonders if Wade has also been such a daredevil or if his recklessness came along with being mutated by Weapon X.

“I was hoping it would taste like el cáncer.”

Peter tosses him a look of inquisitorial disbelief to which Wade shrugs sheepishly.

“Do you eat everything you find in the forest?” Peter asks, dreading the answer.

“Well, now that you’re in the forest….” Wade slips an arm around Peter and drops a quick, reassuring kiss to the top of his head. “’Course not, sugar lips. My old pa didn’t teach me much in our short time together, but he sure as hell taught me how to read the signs of nature.” Wade says it with a dramatic flair, hands on his hips in a superhero stance. “After all, can’t grow up to be a man if you get muscarine poisoning.”

Peter chews on his lips and looks up at Wade curiously. “Did you grow up in a place like this?”

Wade shrugs again, his shoulders holding a thin line of tension. “There was more snow.”

The right thing to do is not to pry. Peter sews his lips shut and nods a little in acknowledgment. They stand for a moment, the sound of insects once again alight. Then Peter nods again.

“We should get moving,” Peter comments, then takes a few steps in the direction Wade had been going before Peter distracted them. When he’s a couple of feet ahead, he stops and whirls around to look expectantly at Wade.

Peter waves a hand in front of himself. Wade’s supposed to be his guide here.

“Excuse me,” Peter prods when Wade stands there, watching him. “Are you taking us to Sunny or not, Scout leader? What are you doing just standing there?”

“Scout Master Kevin,” Wade sighs contemplatively. “He was hung.”

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing!” Wade suddenly jumps back into action, hurrying to meet Peter. “Just watching a Bambi meet nature for the first time. I thought you might have known where we were headin’. Like from some sort of instinctive Bambi sense.”

“What?” Peter may or may not trip over himself as Wade grabs his hand and begins pulling him to the left. “What? No, I don’t have, like, any special senses or anything,” Peter gets out as they stumble upon a little hill of moss and leaf litter. Wade watches him gracelessly pad along a half step behind him with unbridled amusement.

“Yup,” Wade squeezes Peter’s hand reassuringly. “Relax, baby mutant crustacean. Your salty secrets are safe with me. Consider them lost in the undertow, swept away by a tsunami.”

“You don’t make any sense.” A fantastic retort.

Peter feels his cheeks burn when Wade tosses him a smirk and drops to his knees in front of the hill of moss. He lands silently and Peter wills himself not to think any deviant thoughts, watching as Wade starts to dig his hands into the hill to scoop dirt off of it.

Now Peter’s not ready to reveal his identity of Spider-Man. He hopes to God that Wade won’t guess it outright, because Peter wouldn’t know how to respond. He’d rather Wade was way out in left field with his guesses, but really? A crustacean? Wade honestly thinks Peter’s mutation is somehow related to a crab or a lobster? How would that even happen? Getting pinched by a radioactive crab out in the sea off of Fukushima?

How asinine.

“Really?” Peter grumbles, bitter at the implication. “A crustacean? A shrimp?”

Wade shrugs, “Well, you said it, not me.” Wade’s smile is evident in his words. “Get over here, you steaming, red prawn, and help me take this moss off these rocks.”

Sighing irritably, Peter scurries over to Wade and helps him peel the moss of the rock pile.

“I’m not a shrimp,” Peter mumbles grouchily, throwing some moss with too much force behind them. He hears it smack against the ground too loudly.

“Oh, then what are you?” Wade sings softly, turning to Peter and grinning evilly as Peter shuts up immediately. Peter’s silence doesn’t phase Wade at all. The man just nods like he’s been proven right and kisses Peter’s tightened lips.

“Why am I unearthing all this stupid moss?” Peter says exasperatedly, desperate for a distraction, and chasing Wade’s lips despite himself. Wade darts out of range though and Peter gives a testy “hmph”.

“A sourpuss, that’s what you are,” Wade mutters mercilessly and then, he’s pushing the rock hill over to one side, sending pebbles falling everywhere in a miniature avalanche. From under the rocks, he pulls out a suitcase, snaps it open, and begins assembling what appears to be something large.

“Is that a sniper rifle?” Peter twitches as Wade assembles it rapidly and with an ease that speaks of practice. Before Peter can blink, Wade’s got it all ready to go and it propping it up on the remaining rock hill. He drops to his stomach and begins looking through the scope.

“Ding ding,” Wade confirms. “We’ve got a winner.”

“What are you doing with that?”

“ _That_ is a lady,” Wade protests vehemently, looking offended.

“It’s a gun. It has no gender.”

“ _She_ is Tango 51,” Wade correctly with too much sass for the given situation. “And she’s a real [beaut](https://hinative.com/en-US/questions/2722747), eh? I’m not doing anything naughty, Master. I’m just taking a peek at the trailer park. I want to see which guards are on duty this fine evening. Nothing wrong with some surveillance.”

Peter watches as Wade minutely moves the gun around, no doubt improving his view of the trailer park in the distance. From their vantage point in the trees, Peter can’t see anything. However, he if he concentrates, he can hear the far-off sounds of hollering and music being carried in the wind.

“Sounds like they’re partying,” Peter admits.

Wade hums thoughtfully, with interest. “Boys will be boys. Insert other racist and sexist comment here. Hear anything else?”

Peter closes his eyes and wills himself to filter out his other senses. He struggles to hear past Wade’s breathing and steady heartbeat and focuses on the ruckus that must be happening in the trailer park. After a few minutes of hearing the occasional shout and amp screech, he hears three distinct pops.

Peter’s eyes fly open. “I think someone just fired a gun.”

“Normal Tuesday night for [Shia LeBeouf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0u4M6vppCI).”

Right.

“It’s normal for them to be shooting at each other in their own campsite?”

“Eh, well they could be shooting anything. Clay pigeons, beer bottles, the Russian flag. Each other,” Wade trails off, silent for a moment before making an unhappy sound. “Gross. Angus and Freckles are on gate duty.”

“Angus and Freckles?” Peter parrots, waiting for an explanation.

“Big beefy dude with a handlebar mustache and the one who has an obscene amount of freckles on his bod. Not the absolutely precious kind of freckles that you have, but like hardcore too much sun exposure, leather skin freckles. Psh, talk about el cáncer.”

“Do we like Angus and Freckles?”

“No,” Wade says with finality, then with quick hands, disassembles the Tango 51, packs it away neatly, and stands. He kicks the rocks back onto the suitcase and claps his hands together. “Leggo, my [Eggo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uL8FZsYrf0). Stay behind me.”

Peter rushes after Wade, through another six meters of trees, before they finally come to a clearing.

“Hey, Wade?” Peter asks, keeping his voice soft. “Why did you have that gun planted in the woods?”

Wade having a sniper rifle hidden in the forest near where the Black Howlers camp? It couldn’t be random. Had Wade anticipated this somehow?

“She’s an emergency rifle,” Wade tells him. “In case it’s going down for [real](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8Cg572dafQ).”

“But why did you have it here already?”

“ _She_ ,” Wade peeks over his shoulder to glare at Peter. “Stop misgendering my gun!”

Peter throws him a dirty look for being an idiot. The gleeful laugh Wade produces suggests Peter’s dirty look needs practice.

“Ain’t my first rodeo, cowboy. I make a trip here about three times a year to purchase new inventory. Sometimes, the Howlers are more agreeable on one day versus another.”

“And when you say inventory, you mean what exactly?”

“Behold!” Wade says just as they come up upon a mobile residence park that expands further than the eye can see. Two men, Angus and Freckles, Peter assumes, are standing near the dirt road that leads into the park. Just beyond them, Peter can see a swarm of people strewn all over the place—laying on the ground, sitting in plastic foldable chairs, and standing in circles. The stench of alcohol is strong and the sound of heavy metal music blares loudly from within the heart of the party.

“The largest arms dealers in the Northeast U-S-of-A. Mask down, sunshine, lest you blind us,” Wade calls, then is swaggering up to a rotund man dressed in a leather vest and jeans. His handlebar mustache is swathed in grease and he has a can of beer in one hand and a gun in the other.

“Howdy, brothers! How you doing?” Wade offers them a wave, stopping just a few feet in front of where Angus sits, fingering his weapon.

Freckles—the man next to Angus who is dressed nearly identically—is truly red and tanned, like he spends long hours outside. He looks at Angus for direction, his gun already in hand.

Angus looks Deadpool over with casual distaste, taking a long sip of his drink. He drains it, then squashes the can in a meaty hand, before throwing it carelessly to the side. He coughs, then spits at Wade’s feet.

“T’fuck are ya doing ‘ere, freak?” Angus calls out with authority. Peter bristles at the name calling.

Angus reaches into the pocket in his leather vest and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Peter watches him with unease, noting the myriad of tattoos decorating him, as Angus plucks a cigarette out and snaps his fingers at Freckles.

Freckles grunts and hands him a lighter.

“S’not time for yer pick up yet,” Angus spits again, right at the ground inches away from Wade’s boot. He lights his cigarette then takes a drag, exhaling so that the smoke pours out of his nostrils.

He looks like a cartoon depiction of a redneck dragon.

Peter instantly feels disquieted around him. Angus has barely said two sentences and he’s already being callous toward Wade. He doesn’t give the impression of a likable man. He’s rude and offensive, looking to pick a fight to assert his authority. Peter’s actually flabbergasted that Wade hasn’t drawn a gun on him or given him a good swipe with his katana. Their weapons hook-up must be good and reliable if Wade’s willing to play nice to keep in their good favor.

Or they really are as trigger happy as they’re appearing to be and Wade doesn’t have much confidence in Peter’s adamantium vest. It’s bizarre, now that Peter thinks about it: that Wade didn’t just waltz into the compound, skipping and obnoxious as usual. Wade had stumbled into Stark Tower with only a skeleton of background knowledge of what was going on. But tonight, he had actually taken the time to approach the park slowly, careful to note who was on duty. A lot of preparation that Deadpool doesn’t need. Of course, Wade’s done this because he’s concerned about Peter’s safety.

Squishy human, as Wade often says.

“Not here for my pick-up, Ang,” Wade replies coolly. “Have a bit of business to take care of. Is Sunny home today? Can he come out and play?”

Angus sucks on the cigarette like he’s daring lung cancer to catch him. He raises bushy eyebrows at Wade appraisingly. “Who’s askin’?”

Peter can see the way Wade’s shoulders tense in impatience. Uh oh.

“Me,” Wade answers loudly, then under his breath he mutters, “As I am the one fucking standing here and speaking.”

Peter’s grateful for the way the mask hides his smile.

“Oh?” Angus raises his eyebrows even higher at Wade, licking his lips and snapping his fingers again at Freckles.

Freckles hands him another beer and Peter wonders if Freckles has one purpose as a server-slash-bodyguard. The man doesn’t talk. He just looks at Wade like he’d rather be shooting him bloody and hands things to Angus when he snaps. What a lovely pair.

“[Who dat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8eNqP0f0QU), then?” Angus uses the beer to gesture to Peter, purposefully looking beyond Wade.

“An acquaintance,” Wade says and Peter’s only hurt for half a second when he realizes introducing him as Wade’s boyfriend is probably not the brightest idea. Homerun for Parker; give him a trophy for being the sharpest tool in the shed. He’s not slow on the uptake.

“S’at so?” Angus nods and takes alternating sips of his beer and drags of his cigarette. They all regard each other in silence broken only by the sounds of boisterous partying beyond the gate. “That t’little fag ya keep company with these days?”

Guess they’re not all dumb, then.

Peter’s surprised when Freckles suddenly sits taller and follows Angus’s earlier example by spitting at Wade. A viscous, yellow clump of mucus lands itself right on Wade’s boot this time.

“Dun like sodomites here,” Freckles grunts out in a scratchy voice.

Wade’s shoulders tighten a notch more.

Angus grins like Freckles told a good-natured joke. “Now, now, Patrick. We let t’Lord judge ‘em. The smiting day’ll come.”

Freckles seems to shift his weight in disapproval, eyes now on Peter. Peter feels sick with the way he channels blatant hatred at him. How could he hate Peter? Peter isn’t doing anything untoward, not like Angus or Patrick who are being deliberately hateful. They don’t even know Peter. Peter’s no stranger to criticism and distaste. Spider-Man may have some diehard fans, but he also has a crowd of people who don’t agree with what he does. At least they have a reason to be unsupportive, though; they’re usually people who are publicly against vigilantism. It doesn’t feel like the same thing here. Peter’s never felt so personally attacked before, save for his collection of encounters with Flash Thompson.

Peter tries not to squirm uncomfortably.

“W’kind of business you got if ya ain’t here for a pick-up?” Angus continues, steadily blowing smoke in their direction.

“I’m working Sunny’s case. Got a few follow up questions for him. The kid’s with me for shadowing; he’s new to the business,” Wade recites it like he’s rehearsed it. Peter would have fallen straight on his face trying to sound so suave and confident.

“Yeah, I know,” Angus snorts and scratches his mustache, beer can leaving behind condensation on the scruffy hairs of his chin. “Little mouse gets the cheese. ‘Course they’d pick a pansy t’be an art thief. Makin’ a name fer yerself, then?”

Recognized even with a mask? Well, that can’t be good.

Freckles and Angus break out into chortles again. Then Angus drains his second beer again and, once more, tosses it to the side. He looks past Wade and snaps unmistakably at Peter.

“What’s yer name, boy?” He asks, licking his lips.

Peter answers, like an idiot, before Wade can give him a sign not to. It’s a good thing his mind is having flashbacks to his first few days in _Sister Margaret’s_ fondling his fake identification card like it would bring him some magic.

“Ben,” Peter says and he can tell it’s a mistake because Wade’s shoulder lifts just a hair. Like he’s ready to pull a katana if needed.

“Ben?” Angus tuts as though it’s a shame.

Freckles grunts again. “Dun like Jews here neither.”

“Pillow biter and a Jew,” Angus looks to Freckles and they both look like they’ve run headfirst into a nightmare.

These people are revolting. Peter’s half a minute from grabbing Wade and leaving, but Angus isn’t done speaking.

“D’ya know the origins of the name ‘Wilson’? Good name, that. English and Scottish. ‘Wade,’ now that one’s strong too.”

“Germanic,” Freckles nods approvingly.

Peter has no idea if they’re making this up on the fly or if they’ve purposefully studied the origin on names. It’s ludicrous either way.

“Does that mean Sunny’s busy or not?” Wade cuts in, voice losing its playful, entertaining lilt. “Weasel said the case is pressing, but if the old man is busy, we don’t need to be gum on your shoe.”

“The case is pressing,” Angus repeats to Freckles, voice dropping to mock Wade. The two laugh again and Angus grins nastily at Wade. Despite their apparent approval of Wade’s proposed ancestry, they don’t seem to like him any more than they like Peter. They fix Wade with abhorrence in their eyes and an air of ridicule. “Well, if it’s pressin’ then, be m’guest. You go in,” Angus nods to Peter. “He stays out.”

“No deal,” Wade snaps caustically. “Weasel’s asked for hands-on training. I’m supposed to let him tag along or he’ll have my balls in a shot glass.”

“Yeah,” Angus frowns, “Bet t’training’s real fuckin’ hands-on.”

Peter watches as Angus looks disgruntled and feels a wave of nausea come over him when he sees the moment Angus relents. Peter knows what that means. Weasel’s name carries weight. Perhaps, even more than Deadpool’s does in this circumstance.

“I’m in a doggone good mood,” Angus shrugs as though gracious. As though he didn’t just get spooked into letting Wade get his way. “Bring in the homosexual. But t’Jap knives stay out. SIG on yer hip too.”

Wade quickly sheds the katanas and gun, tossing them to the ground more carelessly than Peter’s even see him handle his beloved weapons. He wonders if it’s for show or if Wade’s on the very of being seriously pissed off. Knowing him, it’s most likely both.

“Twenty minutes,” Angus smiles, finishing his cigarette merrily. “Head on to eight C.”

The way Wade waits for Peter to walk by his side speaks volumes as they walk into the trailer park.

Behind them, Freckles and Angus sound displeased.

“Thinking twice about that no-kill rule, now?” Wade bites out through gritted teeth.

Peter swallows roughly, senses going haywire with a rush of adrenaline.

-

Wade very quickly leads Peter down the footpath. They pass clusters of bikers. Some are passed out on the ground in their own vomit, others are appearing to be having a good time. Peter tries not to hyperventilate when the further they intrude, the louder the electric guitar music whines. They must have a live band going because the amp screeches wonkily, changing the pitch and tone of the guitar at random to the delight of a cheering crowd that Peter hasn’t seen yet.

People glare at them as they pass. Most of them seem to recognize Wade, although no one greets him. A woman with jet black hair and a corset takes one look at Wade and gags, turning to her friend. “Ugly fucker without the mask,” she whispers.

Wade doesn’t hear her. His hearing’s not that enhanced and he’s too focused on navigating the crowd and keeping Peter close without seeming overly handsy or protective.

Peter wants to punch her in the face.

It’s the first time he’s ever wanted to cause pain to a woman. Aunt May, he’s sure though, would agree, given the heartlessness of her comment. Peter’s only been in their presence for less than fifteen minutes and he’s already fed up with this gang. He wants to feel pity for them. He wants to feel empathy and sympathy: some of these people must have been born into this lifestyle, brainwashed with propaganda while they were young and vulnerable. He can’t feel sorry for them.

All they’ve done since he’s arrived is judge Peter and his boyfriend based on appearance and names.

He can’t find it in his heart to forgive them.

These people need help. And maybe a lesson in decency.

“This way, Bambi,” Wade whispers. It’s a miracle Peter can hear him over the music. “Cool down.”

Stiff and growing with anger, Peter follows Wade closely as they stride up to a row of trailers labeled “C”. Sure enough, they make it to number eight and there’s Sunny, sitting on his porch with a crowd of two other guys. Shooting the shit and smoking.

“Hey, Sundance,” Wade calls as they approach, his hands in the air like he wants to make sure Sunny knows he has good intentions. “Gotta couple questions for you, can you make some time?”

Sunny scrambles up, nearly knocking his beer over. “Deadpool!” he bellows, throwing a glance at Peter. Sunny’s heart jackrabbits in his chest and eyes go wide. If Peter had been wagering money, he’d reckon that Sunny was about to high tail it out of there. But Sunny ambles over to Wade and clasps his hand, patting him on the back like it’s a pleasant reunion.

Wade did mention at one point that Sunny was a Deadpool fangirl. At one point, he’d even asked Wade for tips on perfecting his mercenary skills.

Sunny sure acts like it’s true. He stupidly trips over his words as Wade asks him for a minute of his time. And then he’s shooing his friends off to another porch, pushing a beer into Wade’s hands and coaxing Peter and him into a seat.

But Sunny smells rather _acrid_.

That should be an adjective that Peter blames Sunny’s bad cologne and body odor for. Instead, it rings a warning bell in Peter’s head.

Peter’s just not sure what the warning is. He just knows something’s not what it appears to be. And so, Peter sits on the edge of his seat.

Wade cuts off Sunny’s pleasantries. “Look, I’m gonna be straight with you, Sun,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward to engage Sunny. “Case is going well. But I ran into a mutual amigo and he tells me you’ve been having Mouse, here, trailed. It makes me feel a certain kind of way. I want to get it from the horse’s mouth. What’s going on?”

“Wh’asst?” Sunny shrugs jerkily. “Who ya run in’ta?”

“You know who,” Wade replies, still friendly in tone. “C’mon, dude. I’m not here to bring fire. You been having him followed? You know that puts me in a shit position. I need to be unbiased to handle your case. Stop it ASAP so I can wrap this son of a bitch up and you can get back in the game.”

“I’ven’t been follow—”

“Sun, we go way back, don’t lie to me. Rags sings like a canary when he’s sober. Why you following him at all? Is it because of him and Weasel?” Wade asks curiously.

What? Peter and Weasel? What does that mean?

There’s a moment that happens very quickly when Wade takes his eyes off of Sunny to glance back at Peter, as though he’s checking in. Just making sure that Peter’s still there and breathing, in one piece next to him. In that small span of half a second, Sunny’s heartbeat ticks up again and he gives Wade a look so drenched in hatred, that Peter half thinks he’ll shoot lasers out of his eyes and char Wade to smithereens.

It’s gone when Wade turns back to him.

“S’not that,” Sunny relents easily. “Jus’ took up t’job, like e’ryone else. Nothin’ personal.” There’s that heart skip. Just like with Rags. What is Sunny lying about?

“It never is, dude. I know it’s a job. I’m asking you merc to merc to put this one down. It’s making a mess for you,” Wade states, clearly trying to frame this so it appeals to Sunny’s interest. This is no place for a violent interrogation when they’re surrounded by bikers.

Now Peter understands what Wade meant.

“Can’t tell t’contractor no,” Sunny mumbles. “Check’s rollin’ in. Shuttle job.”

“You know the next best thing,” Wade cajoles, raising his brows at Sunny. “Merc bro code. Who’s putting you up to it?”

Sunny looks hesitant to reply. Watching him and fiddling idly with the beer in his hand, Wade sweetens the deal without hardship. “I’ll make it easy. I can see your case being cleared within a week, maybe two.”

He cracks so easily that Peter feels suspicious. “Dun know his name,” Sunny grunts and Wade shrugs like he expected it.

“Got a profile?”

“I call ‘im Quickstep,” Sunny admits, fingers slipping on his beer. “Short, wanderer. Big honker. Rollin’ in it.” Then, Sunny lets out a bitter laugh. “Ya know they’re all t’same.”

“Nothing else for me?”

“Nuttin’ left,” Sunny nods. “Just give ‘im the letter at t’end of the week.”

Wade’s jumping up from his seat then, clapping his hands around the beer he holds. He grins at Sunny. “Thanks, man! We’ll get this ish done. Our time’s a tickin’, so we’ll just be getting gone then.”

With that, Wade gestures for Peter to get up. Peter gives Sunny one last scrutinizing look from behind his mask and then lets Wade place a hand between his shoulder blades to steer him off of Sunny’s porch and back to the main footpath.

The music still blares on.

“That wasn’t so bad. It was pretty much civil,” Peter tells Wade softly, at the same moment his Spidey sense flares in warning. There’s a pop, a [squish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrrz54UtkCc), and then Wade’s grabbing him by the nape of the neck and throwing him to the ground. Peter is squished under Wade’s ample weight, sandy dirt pressed to his lips.

A bullet flies over their heads and a chorus of cheers reaches their ears.

Wade curses like a sailor, dragging Peter bodily behind a pick-up truck parked next to the entrance of row C.

“Fucking shitheads,” Wade groans in irritated dismay as the truck’s other side is pelted with a round of shots.

“I think you mean ‘fucking skinheads,’” Peter retorts as a pronounced and enthusiastic “yee-haw” sounds from somewhere ahead of them.

“You’re so cute that the corniness of your humor amuses me,” Wade says then cocks a—wait a moment.

“Where’d you get that gun?” Peter hisses, scrubbing the sand off his chin and staring at the gun with bafflement.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, baby boy?” Wade wriggles his non-eyebrows at Peter with an rowdy chuckle. Then he straightens up to glance through the window of the driver’s seat. He ducks just as another bullet whirls at them, a bullseye for where Wade’s head had just been. It shatters two windows in its path, entering and exiting the car cleanly before lodging into a trailer behind them.

“Are they trying to kill us? Even after they let us in?” Peter asks incredulously.

“Nah,” Wade shakes his head. “They’re just having a little fun.”

Another bullet round rattles the truck.

“I don’t get it, why are they shooting at us?” Peter asks, cringing the music levels up like they’re expecting an epic showdown.

“Think they’re pissed you’re gay and Jewish,” Wade hums, chancing a look over the open bed trunk of the car. His reflexes save him again as three bullets shot at him again to the sound of toasting beer cans. “Fuck a duck.” He lets loose a groan that speaks volumes about his exasperation.

“I’m not Jewish,” Peter muses with a shrug. In case Wade had wondered. They never really spoke about religion or holidays. Peter can’t imagine Wade is religious, but he wonders anyway.

Wade checks the ammunition on his handgun, clicking his tongue when he doesn’t see a full chamber. He does a quick look around, surveying their position.

“And gay?” Wade asks seemingly preoccupied, pulling out his phone and flipping the camera open.

“Huh?” Peter asks, distracted when Wade’s hand darts out from the side of the truck quickly, snapping a picture, then retreats hastily. A bullet blitzes through the empty space just a moment too late to catch Wade’s wrist. He stares at the phone for a moment in concentration, humming a [silly tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3H6amDbAwlY).

“Are you gay?” His fingers pinch at the screen to zoom in on something in the photo.

“I don’t think so,” Peter replies, thinking back to Liz and Gwen. “No. I’m not gay. And you?” he asks automatically, in the same way one might ask how someone else’s day is going after being questioned themselves.

“Gay isn’t how I’d describe me. The flag of my [sexuality](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pansexual_pride_flag) is pink, yellow, and blue. Not ROYGBIV. I’m more about people in their, uh, entirety, ” Wade says, then hands Peter his phone. He points to the picture with a thick finger and grins. “Jackpot.”

“Of course, you’re not gay,” Peter sighs, mouth downturned and falls prisoner to a wave of self-hatred that can’t be doing anything for his esteem these days. He thinks back to the photograph tucked in Wade’s drawer. The exotic, sultry woman with big brown eyes pressed adoringly into an unscarred Wade’s side. “You had a wife after all.”

Still salty.

Peter can’t even control it.

Somewhere from their left, another guitar joins in with the band and a woman’s voice starts screaming out what must be a sad excuse for metal, screamo music. Peter winces as her voice reaches unreal levels of pitch, hand coming up to rub at his sensitive ears. His eardrums are beating reluctantly with the music.

It’s painful.

He looks up to find Wade studying him with interest.

Peter shakes the phone at him. He’s so ready to get out of here. “What jackpot am I looking at?”

“Bikes,” is the only reply he gets as Wade licks his lips. “Stay very still and don’t drop that,” Wade tell Peter seriously, poking his phone.

“Excuse me?”

“My Otterbox broke,” Wade says with a sullen huff. “Should have gotten it insured. Guard that with your life. I haven’t saved my nudes to the iCloud yet.”

Peter’s going to smack his head with this stupid Android phone. “What do you mean stay still?”

“We’re on block C and we need to pass B and A to get to the entrance where we came in. Remember the way we walked through the park?”

Peter winces again, headache approaching rapidly. They’d moved around a lot. Peter maybe remembers. Like in an extremely vague way. He could probably figure it out.

Wade reaches out, taps Peter’s nose, then sticks his hand in the dirt beneath them. “Here we are right now,” he says drawing an ‘x,’ “Here’s where we need to be. Here are blocks B and A. It’s pretty much a straight line to the gate. Good, little soldier?”

Absorbing the little drawing, Peter nods before dryly looking at Wade. He hopes it translates well via the mask. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Wade moans and licks his lips. “Drop and give me twenty, private—”

Another round of bullets.

“Fuck, okay. Escape now, roleplay later. Simon says: stay still and cover your ears. When I give the signal, run for the gate,” Wade pats Peter’s head.

“Why?” Peter jumps when Wade suddenly stands up tall, unprotected by the truck due to his height. “I’m not running anywhere without you.”

“I’ll be right behind you. We’re gonna run straight for the tree-line, okay? [Together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbrbUfYSt0E). Run like Zac Efron is waiting at the finish line.”

“What are you doing?”

“Incapacitating!” Wade cheers.

 _What’s the signal?_ Peter means to ask, but Wade fires exactly one bullet and then there’s a sudden commotion, a warning shout, and then a large, vibrating boom shakes the trailer park. The smell of gasoline, metal, and smoke permeates the air with such vigor that Peter chokes.

“Yeah, fuckers, you wanna play now? Daddy’s a dungeon master! Who’s your Grand Wizard now, eh? Hows about you suck my dick?” Wade screams at the top of his lungs, hopping from behind the car and emitting a startling war cry that sounds a lot like a frat boy who just discovered how to chug. “Eat fire, gimps!”

 _That_ must be the signal.

“Hope y’all brought your Costco cards, cause you’re about to get dick in bulk!”

Peter dutifully makes his way from around the car and is met with the site of a row of motorcycles that are currently flaming. They were obviously parked in a neat row before Wade shot at the gas tank of one of them. Now they’re propped up in a fallen line like dominos and a red flame travels from one bike to another. Peter feels the ground shake again when another one just sort of blows up like it was waiting to be next. The combustion sends tinny smoke up into the fresh air, poisoning it with the smell of petrol and incinerated leather.

There are people all around him, but none of them seem alarmed, which is a true testament to what they must get up to on the regular.

“Where’s your dick punch card, bandana? The eighth dick is [free](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHEc66d08YU).”

Peter watches as Wade waves his gun around like a victorious first grader, shaking it antagonizingly in the direction of three men who stand near the burning bikes. One holds a semi-automatic rifle, while the other two are carrying guns that look similar to the one Wade’s carrying now. Peter doesn’t know much about guns or the names of weapons, but the semi-automatic looks military grade and outlandish in a trailer park. It almost looks too big for the skinny man holding it.

“My chopper!” The skinny man yells out, turning as cherry red as the bandana around his bald head. He must be talking about his motorcycle because he stares at the flames looking extraordinarily pissed off.

Peter’s feels like he’s going to vomit when he sees the man aim the gun at Wade. His Spidey sense flares almost viciously to a level he’s never experienced before. It feels like his skin is going to crawl off his bones.

Wade does a little dance, looking at his weapon, then chews on his lip and grunts. “Literally whipped,” Wade mumbles, shaking his head, and shoots the man with the bandana in the foot. The man drops the gun and falls into a puddle on the ground, yelling out and cursing, while his friend rushes to support him.

“Ah!” The man yowls loudly, letting out an impressive slur of swear words melt together into one big cluster of indiscernible vowels and consonants with his heavy accent.

“Eh, [macarena](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anzzNp8HlVQ)!” Wade yells back, joyfully. “Ay, ay!” He sends another two bullets loose as he sings.

“Yer fuckin’ too big f’yer own britches fuckin’ son of a hussy, yer gon’ wish ya got hit harder with that ugly stick!”

“Oh, the drama. Relax, you’ll live! I barely hit you,” Wade tells him over the music. “Just a little incapacitation. Maybe a little amputation.” The man’s yells get louder and he throws a few vulgar words Wade’s way. “Yeah, yeah, I could be wrong. I dunno, I’m not a fucking doctor. Fucking hell, you expect so much of me.”

“He drew blood,” the man in the bandana wails theatrically, sinking further to the floor and curling up in a heap of pain. The third man standing next to him with a handgun nods like he’s been given an order and raises his gun in confidence at the same time two other gang members make a run for where Peter and Wade are standing.

Peter’s only a few steps away from Wade, literally just a car’s length separates them.

The bikers are encroaching.

Peter hears the sound of the trigger like thunder.

Without even thinking, he grabs the closest biker and throws him in between Wade and the gunshot, just as Wade ducks, grabs a hefty rock from off the ground, and chucks it at Peter. In the same moment, the shot intended for Wade hits his biker shield in the shoulder and the rock sails just past Peter’s ear, colliding with the face of the man who’d been sneaking up on him.

Peter whips around in time to see his nose get crunched by the rock. The rock falls to the ground and a fountain of blood spurts from the man’s face.

“Nosebleed counts as incapacitation!” Wade says confidently, then he’s running toward Peter, grabbing his arm and pulling him into motion. “ _Ándale_ , [Speedy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOvyRjVQLjE); this is us running to the gate. You were supposed to run before me.”

“You weren’t supposed to get shot at,” Peter retorts, effortlessly falling into a run with Wade. He frantically looks around them, but none of the bikers seem to be keen on extracting revenge. Most of them simply laugh as they run by.

Except for one person.

Peter can hear soft, fast steps catching up with them and again, the distinct sound of a gun getting ready to be fired off. Acting reflexively, Peter untangles his arm from Wade and gives the man a powerful shove that literally propels him forward, forcing him to run forward a few stumbling feet to keep his balance.

No one’s going to shoot at Wade again.

_No._

“Not cool!” Wade breathes out, saving himself from a faceplant.

Then, there’s a feminine yelp, the sound of wind being blown from someone’s chest, and a clatter of metal hitting pebbles.

Peter turns, ready for a fight, heart racing to see a woman fallen on the grass, cradling her arm as though it’s injured.

A gun skids a few feet to her right.

Peter blinks.

“Smooth, lady,” Wade comments, appearing at Peter’s side again. “Karma’s your fellow bitch.”

“What the fuck?” she shouts, mouth gaping and looking at Peter with terrified eyes.

“Serves you right,” Wade yells right back, wagging a finger at her. “Trying to shoot a soldier with his back turned. The gravity gods disapprove! Dishonor on you, dishonor on your family, dishonor on your fucking [cow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppobDZeSJ9Q)!”

The woman’s crumpled form trembles and she attempts to reach for the gun that’s fallen with her. Her fingers twitch valiantly toward it, but she lets out a moan of pain instead. She seems to have broken her arm. Peter can see the distress written all over her. She looks so pitiful laying there shaking that Peter doesn’t even consider her a threat. That doesn’t stop Wade from snapping to attention, taking a half-step in her direction when she looks to the gun desperately.

“Are you gonna try again?” Wade bites through his teeth, looking between her and the gun with a poorly concealed temper. “Bitch, I hope the fuck you do! You’ll be a dead son of a bitch, [I tell you that](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kIRZEmgU7VQ).”

She shrinks at Wade’s belligerent shout.

Peter is the one this time who grabs Wade’s elbow and urges him to move. They need to get out of here. They’re lucky she fell to the ground before she could get a shot fired. That bullet could have gone right into Wade’s head. Peter’s not sure how many more people with guns are lurking around them. Everyone here is armed and they’re crawling around the campsite, movements concealed by the heavy music that makes the skin on the back of Peter’s neck crawl. Peter just can’t track them all accurately. It’s too risky to stay when he can’t protect Wade or himself properly.

 _Better to retreat_.

“What a bitch,” Wade repeats caustically as Peter fights to pull him away. They’re at the gate now. Just five feet away when Wade is clearly overcome with the devil. He throws his hands up in fuming exasperation and stomps his feet like he’s been jinxed. Then, in a quick movement possessed by ire, Wade turns and shoots the remaining round of his ammunition right at where the crumpled woman lays.

“Wade!” Peter cries out in shock, hands tightening too much around Wade’s elbow. He can feel the joint shift in his unsteady grip.

“She’s fucking fine,” Wade grumbles, then lets his voice carry. “Very regrettably alive.”

Peter watches the bullets fall into the dirt just a few inches away from her face.

“Inca-fucking-pacitated,” Wade growls, then uses Peter’s grip on him to drag them both outside of the gate where a grinning Angus and Freckles are watching them gleefully.

“Haf a good time, genteel-men?” Angus considers them with all of the amusement of a puppeteer. The look of a man who’s plucked and wriggled all the right strings to get what he wants.

“Yeet,” Wade spits, then tosses his empty handgun at Freckles. It cracks Freckles right in the forehead and the man passes out in his chair with a half-baked sound of surprise. The gun in his grip falls to the ground as Freckles’ eyes roll back into his head.

“Ha, sweatin’ like a whore in church now, ain’t ya? How’sat poncy suit werkin’ fer ya today, boy?” Angus just uses a finger to curl around the end of his handlebar mustache. He snorts at Wade and sips his can of beer, the vision of tranquility.

“We’ll be seein’ ya fer yer pick-up, then,” Angus says, then raises his beer can in a silent toast.

Peter hastily grabs Wade’s katanas and two guns from the floor where he’d dropped them, making use of his stealth. Then, he mutters out a feeble “thanks,” and drags a fuming Wade as quickly as possible to the tree-line.

-

They’re silent the entire way through the forest. When they finally make it to the road, the black car is parked and running still.

Wade knocks on the driver’s window twice, then the doors unlock. Peter crawls in, dumping Wade’s mini-inventory at his feet, and watches as Wade follows him. As he closes the door and they settle in their seats, the car executes a U-turn and ventures off at a healthy speed.

Peter’s still shaky with adrenaline.

Unfortunately, this is not the most eventful thing that’s ever happened to him. Peter has, after all, had a building collapse on him, as likes to remind himself from time to time. And he’d tried to act as human glue for a ferry that was broken into halves. He’s fought side by side with Iron Man and the Avengers.

But he’s never had to see someone raise a gun deliberately at Wade’s head.

Even in Stark Tower, the _Life Foundation_ guards had been shooting at Peter and his cargo, not Wade, despite that it was Wade who jumped in front of him.

And Wade is sitting unnaturally still, taking measured breaths, looking not very happy.

“So,” Peter coughs awkwardly. “Guess you won.”

Wade’s eyes flicker over to Peter and his lips quirk up. He takes a deep breath. “Incapacitated the fuck out of those peeps.”

“Guess I’ll have to tell you all my secret thoughts,” Peter says, hoping to get that lip quirk into a full smile.

Wade hums noncommittally, still appearing tense.

“What if I said I wanna,” Peter begins forcing himself not to bang his head on the car door. “Lick you from your head to your toes?” He tries awkwardly, swallowing around a dry mouth. “And then, I wanna move from the bed down to the floor.” Wade blinks twice, furrows invisible eyebrows at Peter, then narrows his eyes. “I wanna—”

“Hah-hah,” Wade breathes out, eyes still narrowed, but lips spasming like they can’t maintain a frown for much longer. “You make it so good, I don’t wanna leave, but I gotta.”

“Know w-what’s yo’ [fantasy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mq-Ru6kQhE4),” Peter finishes in his best impression of Ludacris, delighted with Wade bellows out a too loud laugh that lights up the car like Christmas.

“Were you even alive when that song came out?” Wade gestures at him in disbelief, scars on his cheeks folding up like smile lines in a manner that Peter cherishes.

“Yeah, I was a couple months old.”

“Unbelievable,” Wade groans, smacking his head back on the headrest of his own volition.

Peter gives in, taking off the Deadpool mask, and ignores seatbelt protocol once again to drape himself over Wade. The action makes Wade smile even more brightly and Peter fights not to pat himself on the back for making a good decision.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Peter says placatingly, petting Wade’s arm reassuringly.

Wade looks quizzical. “They tried to shoot you,” he replies. “When I had my back turned. I didn’t even hear the thot sneaking up.”

Peter kisses Wade’s cheek delicately, thinking back to all the guns he’s seen in his life aimed at himself. No big deal, really. “That happens sometimes,” he says with an accepting shrug, hoping to get Wade’s mind off of it. Nothing happened. No irreversible damage.

Wade looks even more bewildered.

“You didn’t kill anyone,” Peter beams proudly. “Thank you.” This is a strange conversation. Such is Peter’s life nowadays.

Wade nods in assent, looking bitter. “Yeah,” he replies, tearing off his gloves and pushing a hand into Peter’s hair.

Peter sighs at the touch.

“All for a big wad of nada, too,” Wade continues in frustration. “Leave it to Sunny to give a shit description of a person he’s totally met more than once.”

“Hm?” Peter asks wordlessly, eyes fluttering in pleasure as Wade tugs on the hair at the nape of his neck. That feels so good. Wade should do this all of the time. Every day, all day.

“Short, wanderer, big honker, rollin’ in it,” Wade repeats Sunny’s words looking disgusted. “What a piece of discriminating shit. They all fucking look the same. It’s 2020, you’d think we’d wipe out assholes from the population by now. There are too many fucktards; we need a new plague.”

Peter frowns, distracted as Wade’s ministrations continue. “I don’t understand any of that.”

“That’s because your part of the generation is the one that brings us hope,” Wade smiles sardonically at him. “Sunny very unkindly told us that his contractor is a short, Jewish man with a large nose who’s rolling in cash. He said he calls him ‘Quickstep,’ so I guess we can give him like one kudo for a non-antisemitic nickname.”

Peter pulls away from Wade’s hand and frowns at him.

“That could be anyone in New York City,” Wade muses. “I hate to say it, but we’re probably gonna have to ask Weasel for help again. I’m running out of favors to give.”

“Quickstep,” Peter repeats, looking unseeingly at Wade.

“It’s a dance,” Wade tells him. “Like a fast Foxtrot. Fast little steps to a fast beat.”

“I know what it is,” Peter says, frowning and smacking a hand onto Wade’s chest to shut him up. There’s just a hint—an image of something hovering at the back of his mind. What is it? Why does this name call out to him so much?

_When he walks to the door, he takes fast little steps, looks into the peephole, then pulls his hair in frustration._

A rather short, wealthy Jewish man. It could be a coincidence.

It’s probably not.

Peter jump as his phone vibrates in his pocket, hand reaching to the unzip the puffer jacket. He retrieves his phone from the hoodie, grimacing when he sees Mr. Stark’s name on the text notification.

_Hey, kid. Checking in._   
_I’d like to talk to you_   
_It’s not urgent, call me when you can._

Peter doesn’t have time to talk right now. He hurriedly shoves the phone back into his pocket and looks up at Wade, who’s pointedly gazing off in another direction, outside of the window.

Peter starts, “I—” Might know exactly who Sunny is talking about.

Wade looks down at him, no indication of pressure in his eyes. He reaches up to tap Peter’s nose twice in a goofy gesture he’s making a habit of. Peter stares into his eyes and ignores the voice in his head that tells him this isn’t a movie script. It feels like one, though. That monumental scene where one character realizes how integral another is to their existence.

Index finger tracing Wade’s jawline absently, Peter catalogs all of the color pigments littered in Wade’s eyes and feels _it_ again, slamming into his chest like a freight train at full speed.

“I,” _might be inescapably in love_. Peter bites into his bottom lip cleanly and unflinchingly.

Shut up, Parker.

The last thing he needs to do is open his mouth and yack out some romantic drivel. Peter just left nineteen years of age behind and he does not want to give Wade any reason to remember that. If he blurts out even half of what he’s feeling right now, he might as well go on to sing a cliche ballad pronouncing this a teenage [dream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98WtmW-lfeE).

Wade makes a hurt sound, watching a bead of blood bubble up with disapproval. “Stop that,” he says, using a thumb to dislodge Peter’s lip from his teeth. “Deep breath, sweetheart.”

Peter struggles to follow Wade’s example.

“Want to know the secret to making delicious chimichangas?” Wade bulldozes on, holding Peter’s chin firmly.

Yes. Peter wants to know. Anything to make him stop feeling so trapped. Why does Peter keep doing this to himself?

“Having a delicious boy in your condo while you cook them.”

Their subsequent laughter feels like a reprieve more than the evasion it is.

Wade takes no small amount of incandescent pride in making Peter relax. It’s written all over his face, as clear as day. Peter does his best to relay his gratitude through his eyes. Wade winks at him playfully, then leans in to touch their mouths together. It’s a kiss, Peter knows that. It’s sweet and gentle, full of innocent intentions, but when Wade captures Peter’s bottom lip into the warmth of his mouth, all Peter can feel is the way he licks the blood right off and swallows it down.

A bone-deep measure of satisfaction and lust slithers around inside of him, cheering and cooing in dark awe. It’s so strong that Peter can’t even moan or jerk his limbs awkwardly, the way he normally would. He freezes and presses himself into Wade meaningfully, even as Wade pulls back with a stern look.

“No hanky panky. It’s too late,” Wade looks pained as he says it. “Take a nap, we have a two-hour ride.”

Peter sighs, arousal calming itself, just barely. Wade’s right. He extracts himself from Wade’s hold and goes to settle in when Wade is apparently struck by an invisible bolt of lightning. Peter jumps as Wade abruptly transforms into a cyclone of flailing limbs and yelps.

“Oh, my fucking fucksicle, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, what the fuck?” Wade screams, tossing an arm out and shaking it with gusto. “Get the fuck off!”

Peter, baffled and frightened by the display, sits up on his haunches, immediately looking for a perpetrator. “Wade? What’s wrong?”

Wade shakes his arm even harder, inching his entire body away from it like it’s diseased. “Don’t you fucking see it? You creepy, son of a fucking crawling bastard, bitch, find another victim! Aha!”

Peter squints his eyes just in time to see something incredibly small and black fall from Wade’s forearm to the glass divider between them. When he leans closer to get a look—heedless of Wade’s screech of warning—Peter is quite perplexed to see a small [jumping spider](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xF2GlKxZ3zI) staring back at him. Without much thought, he grabs it in his hand, opens the window, and sets it free back into the outside world where it belongs. He rolls up the window and turns to find Wade regarding him with big eyes.

“Um,” Peter starts hesitantly, trying to remain calm. Is there a way to not laugh at a six-foot-two trained assassin dressed in leather having a panic attack because a spider is stuck on him?

“Not a fan of bugs, then?” Peter raises a brow at him.

Wade clears his throat and sits up straight like he has to compensate for what just happened with masculinity. “It’s just the spiders, really. It’s not that I’m not a fan,” Peter raises both brows at him, meaningfully looking at Wade’s arm. Wade jumps again, looking down to his arm frantically as though another spider has spontaneously appeared on it. When he sees nothing he glares at Peter.

“Okay, fine, I’m not really a fan and not a not fan. I have mixed feelings about spiders.”

Wade has no idea.

 


	4. Chapter 4

-

Peter stays with Wade for what’s left of the early morning hours, having the pleasure of sleeping curled up next to him. He enjoys the luxury by summarily passing out, almost as soon as they arrive at the condo. When his usual alarm goes off, Peter blinks languidly and has to reach around Wade to silence it.

He’s late to work because he spends too long watching Wade look uncharacteristically young in slumber. It’s an image imprinted into his mind throughout his time at the Deli. It’s an alluring vision; almost like a painting. Wade hadn’t looked quite real, shirtless and sweating underneath Peter and a set of blankets.

Many things compete for priority in Peter’s mind, from his family to Mr. Stark, to his most recent disconcerting conversations with Rags and Sunny. But Peter dismisses each one to remember how soft Wade looking this morning. How unconsciously trusting he was with Peter, allowing him to sleep in the same bed as him. Allowing Peter to get up and have free reign over his space with nothing more than a sleepy snore.

Everything about it seems to fortify Peter as a person.

When Peter’s on his way back to his apartment—no Rags to be found—he stops at a halfway point and shakes his head. He had planned to run home and change into his suit so he could get some answers to this mess that is his life. Or maybe run back to the lab to check his test results. But the _Life Foundation_ can wait. The lab results can wait. It already has too much power over Peter’s mind. Peter needs to focus more on his own life. He wants to do things he enjoys. He’s going to go and be with his boyfriend and get what he craves the most: another one of those humdrum, domestic nights with Netflix and homemade food.

Peter pulls out his phone to text Wade.

_Can I stay over tonight?_

_bb boi u dnt need 2 ask  
wud u lyk 2 stay 4ever?_

_-_

Peter’s just stepped off the elevator when he hears Wade’s voice, tinny through the walls, as he makes his way eagerly to his condo door, rapping his knuckles against it.

“I don’t know, I’m just having trouble piecing it together is all. I’m telling you, it’s a load of baloney,” Wade’s voice says, increasing in volume as he approaches the door.

The door swings open and Wade grins down at Peter, phone in one hand, pressed to his ear. He urges Peter in with a gesture and closes the door as Peter skips into the kitchen with too much excitement. The first thing he sees is that the new granite countertop has been installed on the island. It looks stunning.

“Yeah, I know I told you something fishy’s going on, but regardless, Sunny didn’t kill his targets, someone else did. That’s the final print. Give the requesters the option to invoke the right and let it be, Mother Mary. Let me be,” Wade speaks with an extravagant eye roll. Peter knows it’s Weasel on the other end without even having to listen for his voice.

“Hey,” Wade tells Peter, pouting and pointing to his lips. “Where’s my ‘hello’ kiss?”

Peter shudders. “Gross, not while you’re talking to Weasel.”

“No,” Wade rolls his eyes again. “Not you. The last time we kissed, you were on E and I was on Patrón tequila, drunk on [margaritas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2zdWSBNm4Ks).”

“You kissed Weasel?” Peter says, words strangled.

“No,” Wade puts a hand on his hip. “Weasel kissed me.” He looks defensive, proud, and grossed out all at once.

“Ew!” Peter coughs, face scrunching up in hopelessness and betrayal. Peter doesn’t care about the circumstance. Wade and Weasel kissing? Disgusting. Primarily because if Weasel kissed Wade and Wade kisses Peter, then has Peter, in some roundabout way, kissed Weasel? “We’re never kissing again.”

“How are you causing problems in my relationship even though you’re not even here?” Wade shouts into the phone, then turns a panicked look on Peter. “Why are we never kissing again?”

“Because Weasel kissed you,” Peter gags. “So, I’ve basically kissed Weasel. A second-hand Weasel kiss.”

Wade looks horrified. “You haven’t kissed Weasel!” Weasel’s voice elevates on the other side of the line and Peter focuses on it to prevent himself from laughing at the disturbed expression Wade’s wearing. “No one’s kissing you. Bambi would never kiss you and—”

“No way,” Peter butts in, hearing Weasel’s protest loud and clear. “I would _not_ like it, even if we tried it.”

Wade frowns as Weasel’s voice gets even more passionate.

Peter snorts at Weasel’s antics and defensive whirlwind tale. “Tell Weasel I’m very happy he’s heterosexual and I’ll never get the opportunity.”

“He says he’d cut your tongue out before you two would ever play tonsil hockey. Can I get off the fucking phone now? My plans tonight include getting the D. I wanna get laid,” Peter screeches and Wade smirks. “Bro code, indeed. Adios, douche-o.”

Wade’s smirk is positively delicious, which is why Peter saddles up to him easily and pecks him on the chin, then lips, even with his current knowledge that he’s second-handedly kissing Weasel. Peter wants to kiss the smile right off of Wade’s lips. He doesn’t hesitate to lick into Wade’s mouth hungrily or respond in kind to Wade’s lascivious groan.

“So...how are you today?” Peter grins and chastly kisses Wade’s chin.

“[Supersonic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBHNgV6_znU),” Wade growls loudly as Peter makes his way wetly down his neck. He tends to the rough skin sweetly. “Hip, naughty, funky fresh. You’re making it hard to concentrate, strutting around in those damn khakis. Ngh. Bambi got swag.”

Peter huffs a soft laugh, “Are you insinuating that [I’m hot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtC92pzp5vw)?”

“I’m insinuating that I want the goodies,” Wade replies under his breath. “Yes, I have thought about it. I’m hot and bothered and I want you all up on me screaming ‘[yeah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GxBSyx85Kp8)’.”

Nipping at the crook of Wade’s neck to conceal his snort of laughter, Peter tugs Wade down to kiss him better, murmuring hushedly at him to maintain their privacy in the face of Weasel.

“I missed you today.”

But Wade still has the damned phone pressed to his ear and Weasel is still yapping. Peter doesn’t bother listening in. He has much worthier things to pay attention to. That he is ravenously starving is one of those things. But Peter thinks he can ignore that too because Wade’s doing that thing with his tongue that Peter still hasn’t learned to copy yet.

“Hm,” Wade hums onto Peter’s lips, panting when Peter grants him a small moment to breathe, pulling back to nip lightly at his soft, velvety skin. “Well ain’t I just special, then?”

The way Wade’s eyes light up as they find Peter’s face tells him that Wade’s not just saying that for Weasel. It might be relevant to whatever conversation they’re having, but it’s also little truth whispered for Peter.

It makes Peter feel bashfully pleased.

Wade’s more than special. He’s invaluable. He is essential. He is _everything_. And Peter means that all in the most mature way possible. It’s not that he’s obsessed with Wade—much. He’s not an infatuated child. Wade is his anchor and lifesaver all at once.

Peter watches keenly as Wade smiles down at him, speaking absently into the phone.

“They’re all shady, Weas, that’s why they go to you for business. Just give me the deats when they roll in. Fine, then. Tell them to ring me. The boyfriend and I are going to Netflix and chill for real this time. So you better let me go before this becomes an accidental threesome with the third party participating via phone sex.”

“Disgusting,” Peter mouths at him, grimacing again.

Because Weasel.

Thankfully, that seems to be the end of the phone call because Wade almost throws his phone onto the gleaming, new red granite island. It clatters loudly upon impact, but Wade doesn’t seem so concerned about it shattering.

Peter can’t help but quirk an eyebrow at him, “Don’t you think you should be more careful since your Otterbox broke? Wouldn’t want to endanger the nudes.”

Wade sniffs disinterestedly in the direction of his phone once before his eyes zap back to Peter. “Are we going to do the dinner thing or can I just have my dessert first? Because I gotta say, running around with the Howlers yesterday was enough to get my blood pumping. All that adrenaline has turned into thirst. I want life-affirming sex.”

Peter bites his lip around a laugh. “Thought you said it was just a game? That we weren’t really in danger?”

Wade shrugs. “Does that mean we can’t do the [sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L1ttr0s9M7k)? Because I would _love_ to have The Sex with you.”

He looks hopeful like he can’t imagine Peter will deny him. And Wade’s absolutely right. There’s no way Peter’s going to turn down sex with Wade for, like, anything. Peter feels the emptiness of his stomach acutely. It’s been a while since his meager lunch and if he was responsible, he’d be eating right now. He hasn’t felt this starving in so long, especially not with Wade’s interest in fattening him up. Food is definitely the logical answer to Peter’s hunger right now, yet all Peter can concentrate on is lust. He already feels it, building like the burning coals underneath a newly lit fire. The excitement and anticipation making him shaky.

Sex with Wade means feeling good. It always leads to Peter’s mind and body turning themselves inside out. Breathlessness and a whirlwind of emotions and sensations braiding together in a way that reminds Peter of when he meets a thug with a gun head-on in a fight. It’s almost stressful. But in a good way. Like it’s a good kind of stress where Wade wrings Peter like a wet towel, manipulating him how he pleases, in a way that Peter _needs_. God, he needs it. He just _needs it_. It satiates the fiber of Peter’s being, from the thoughts that ravage his mind to the hunger that he can’t escape from. And when it’s all good and over, Wade gently folds him up in a pristine package: a facsimile of the human Peter’s been playacting at for nearly his whole life.

Peter doesn’t answer Wade’s question

He slowly turns instead, willingly showing Wade his back, unafraid, and makes his way into the bedroom. As he does, Wade’s fingers caress Peter’s gently.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

-

Peter’s on the bed by the time Wade snaps out of his stupor long enough to follow him. The soft mattress cradles him as he looks up to watch Wade approach. Wade doesn’t pass through the door, though. He pauses, eyes on Peter, looking lost in thought. Then he settles into a smirk again and leans against the doorframe.

“How was your day, sweetpea?” Wade asks, smirk transforming into a grin when Peter glowers. “What, baby? Not in the mood for foreplay, then? C’mon, let me talk you up a bit. I know I get those engines revving,” Wade ends, mimicking a car engine flawlessly.

Really, Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly, what a talent.

Peter twists his hands in the duvet beneath them and rolls his eyes. He’s already half-hard and that means it’s not going fast enough for him. Wade needs to get over here and get in bed with him. They haven’t done much in a bed, have they? The last time Peter was in this bed, Wade’s mouth was exploring previously unconquered territory on Peter’s body, sending Peter off splendidly fast like a firecracker on the fourth of July. 

“Oy vey, tough crowd,” Wade shakes his head and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Fine, then, we can do it your way. Take off your clothes.”

Peter is more than happy to shed the khakis and work shirt. He dumps everything into a careless pile beside the bed, including his boxers. He doesn’t stand, just wriggles out of his clothes from his place on the bed and letting his flexibility do the hard work for him. He’s just about to peel off his socks when Wade stops him.

“Keep them on,” Wade says, already drinking in the view.

Blinking up at him, Peter’s hands stop and drop onto his knees. He’s sitting on the bed still, legs sprawled out in front of him. “Why?” he asks.

Wade shrugs a little. “Maybe I have a sock kink.”

Looking down at his boring, white tube socks, Peter frowns doubtfully. Even people with a sock kink would not find Peter’s dollar store socks sexy. “You don’t have a sock kink,” Peter grumbles and looks curiously back at Wade, checking his reaction. In case he’s wrong.

“No,” Wade admits. “But I have a _you_ kink. So keep the socks on, not because I have a sock fetish, but because I asked you.”

 _Oh_.

And it’s just that minuscule change in their power dynamic that makes Peter’s chest heave. Before, he had followed Wade’s direction without prompting. He’d taken off the rest of his clothes in a rush, not even thinking. Once again, Peter had been off in his own mind, ahead of himself. Now Wade brings him back, reeling him in easily. He calls Peter’s attention back to the fact that Peter’s complying with Wade’s direction because it’s _Wade_ asking. Because Peter wants to. He’s reminding Peter what he gives to Wade. Because Peter had said it before; he feels like he gives himself to Wade when they have sex and he enjoys it.

Peter keeps the socks on and basks in the approving air of Wade’s body language.

They watch each other carefully in a tightening silence that lasts for a long minute before Wade speaks again.

“What do you want to do?” Wade asks.

Even before Wade’s done with the question, Peter’s conjuring images that accelerate with light speed behind his eyes. He thinks of everything they’ve done. Wade’s mouth on him, his mouth on Wade. Peter’s hands on him, Wade’s hands on him, Wade’s hands on _them_. And their most recent foray in a _Lord & Taylor_ fitting room; Wade’s sneaky fingers, slipping places where Peter’s hot and curious.

They’d been in the alleyway, not too far from Rosa’s, when Peter had first thought about it: bent over on the concrete, but no he wasn’t ready. Then they’d been on the phone when it came up again. But Peter couldn’t touch, Wade had murmured to him, because that was Wade’s job. And Wade _had_ touched, almost cruelly with his mouth, then sweetly with his fingers. And Peter has thought about it. In between the episodes of madness, Peter thinks about it too much.

“I want you to fuck me,” Peter says, voice shaking unbecomingly.

It doesn’t matter how much comfort he’s built with Wade. To say it so bluntly with no prompting is incredibly difficult. Peter doesn’t want to play the part of a blushing virgin bride. He doesn’t consider himself to anything close to the character. But this _is_ something that he’s never done before and unlike all of his other firsts with Wade, this one seems almost embarrassingly intimate. He doesn’t know why. Whether it’s from societal or cultural memes or some ideology he’s picked up as he’s grown, he can’t say, but asking to go ‘all the way’ feels terrifying. Like he’s offering to take Wade’s katana and cut himself open. They haven’t even had sex yet. Wade hasn’t touched him yet. And it already feels so, so good. Standing at the edge of a cliff, a breath away from falling.

“No, we’re not doing that.”

Peter catches the firm look in Wade’s eyes, matching his tone. It doesn’t register at first.

Shock.

That’s what hits Peter first.

Right in the chest, bluntly slamming like someone’s shot him with a paintball. _No._ The word explodes and splatters all over his chest and then Peter’s jerking his legs together. His arms curl around his knees, fingers traveling down to touch his socks like he’s hoping they’ll grow to cover his body and give him somewhere to hide.

No.

Peter’s mouth falls open, working uselessly.

No, Wade doesn’t want to have sex with Peter? No. Wade’s actually denying Peter and Peter is unprepared for how much it aches. No, Wade does not want to have sex with Peter. It doesn’t process in his brain. Wade doesn’t tell him “no,” not like that. Wade doesn’t tell him “no” in that way. He only tells Peter “no” when it makes Peter happy. This doesn’t make Peter happy. It makes him feel confused. And upset.

“We’re not ready,” Wade says in explanation and then he’s beelining for where Peter’s sitting.

Plopping on the bed next to him, Wade settles down. He’s giving Peter space physically, but his eyes are already reading Peter’s thoughts.

“We just aren’t ready yet, Peter,” Wade repeats, brow-line creasing. “Sex comes with a lot of baggage. And yes, we have had sex before, but there really is a difference in the level of intimacy between what we’ve been doing and full-blown anal. Don’t let fuckbois convince you otherwise.”

“I know that,” Peter tries to say convincingly, but his voice is too raspy for it to be believable. He does know, though. This is a big commitment and not just because it’s Peter’s first time. Peter’s not unaware of the unwritten consequences that come along with the symbolism of this type of sex. He’s not some clueless kid.

“Peter,” Wade says and Peter snaps to attention again. “It’s not that you’re too young or too inexperienced to understand. I know you understand. That doesn’t change the fact that we aren’t ready yet. I want to be good and old-fashioned with you. I want to wait until all of our cards are on the table before we have sex that way. So ixnay onway ethay exsay. Just for the mo.”

“All of our cards,” Peter licks his dry lips. He’s sweating now, cold and chilly sweat that prickles the back of his neck. “Which cards?”

Wade plants a hand on the mattress and leans forward, just a bit, to look more properly down at Peter. “All of them.”

Worrying his lip relentlessly, Peter expects to feel caged under Wade’s sincere gaze. He just feels restless though. He immediately understands what Wade isn’t saying. Wade wants them to be completely open with each other before they do this. No more secrets. No more lies. Wade knows Peter lies. They’ve acknowledged it and Wade said he’d been okay with it.

Compliant not content. Accepting for now, but not forever.

That marathon look is back in Wade’s eyes.

And Peter feels his lungs turn to lead because he’s just realized that this has a timestamp, doesn’t it? Peter has a lot of secrets. Some he’s already given to Wade, freely or by accident. Each time he does, it makes him feel freer. Peter can easily see himself giving up every pearl of information he usually keeps on lockdown to Wade. In fact, it’s something he doesn’t just fantasize. It’s something he wants and intends to do.

But there’s one thing that Peter can’t ever see himself sharing with Wade: that he’s Spider-Man. He’s pondered it before and all of the pontifications stand true. He can’t tell Wade.

And it’s not because he’s afraid of what Wade would think. If Peter’s learned anything about Wade, it is that his heart is stunning gold for someone whose business is built from a rotten seed. Wade would probably be ecstatic to know Peter was Spider-Man. He’d probably commend Peter for his work and be proud of him. Tell him he was super cool and badass as fuck. But telling Wade would eventually lead to Peter pulling Wade into his world, where he’ll be stomped on and drowned by a sea of judgment. What if Wade thinks they couldn’t possibly be compatible, given that Peter’s a vigilante? What if he rethinks this whole relationship and decides it’s just not worth the headache? Or worse. What if he uncovers the little voice whispering in the back of Peter’s head that tells him he’s not so sure he approves of his life as Spider-Man either?

He can’t lose Wade.

Peter cannot lose Wade. Ever. He _loves_ this man. And he can’t show him all of his cards because he loves him.

Peter is stupid and dirty and horri—

“It’s not just you, Peter,” Wade says suddenly and Peter realizes that he’s been unconsciously tucking himself into a curled up ball of shame. “It’s not just you. Deep breath, sweetheart. Can I touch you?”

Peter, thrown off by the question, sucks in a breath of clean air. He swallows roughly and looks up at Wade beseechingly. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Yeah, I totes do,” Wade replies curtly, then reaches out and pries Peter’s hands away from where they’re digging into his calves. He holds them in his hands, safe and seconded away from where they might cause any damage. Wade thumbs at the center of his palms thoughtfully, erasing the tension.

“It’s not just you, baby, so don’t you go puttin’ everything on your shoulders like always,” Wade gives Peter a knowing smile that curls bitterly and shamefully as he continues. “I’m not exactly an open book.”

He is though. Wade has never lied to him. Not like Peter lies to Wade.

“You don’t lie,” Peter hisses through clenched teeth, anger directed at himself.

“Not my style, really. There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Wade hums. “But that doesn’t mean I’m doing a stellar job at this, Petey pie.”

“You don’t lie,” Peter says again. Because that’s what this comes down to. The cards on the table, right? Peter’s hiding the deck in his hands.

Wade tugs on his hands, jolting Peter out of his curled-up form again. “I keep things in the dark too, honey. Don’t you wonder what it is I do all day? Why I do what I do? How did I get this condo?”

The list seems dull in comparison to Peter’s. “It’s not the same,” Peter mumbles. These things center around Wade’s work. Peter knew there would be secrets when he’d signed up for this. He maybe even encouraged them with his outspoken disapproval of the mercenary lifestyle.

“It _is_ the same,” Wade says with irrevocability. His face says he truly believes it too. “We’re just getting to know each other, Peter. It’s alright that we don’t hand over all of our cards yet. I get that you’re not ready to bare it all to me. I know I goof a lot, but believe me, Peter, I understand more than you realize.”

He’s right.

Of course.

Maybe Peter is just rushing this when he doesn’t need to be. It’s unlike him, actually. To rush so completely into asking for intimacy without having a good think. Peter thinks a lot of things through. He thinks pretty much everything through. That’s why he’s a good Spider-Man. That’s why his family and friends are safe. That’s why he has a five-year plan. That’s why he got to know Wade instead of arresting him on the spot for the murders Mr. Stark was so sure he’d committed. Peter’s not perfect. He doesn’t think the right things at the right times, usually. But he thinks a lot. And fantasizing about having sex with Wade isn’t the same as thinking it through.

Full circle: finally got there. Good grief, Parker.

Peter’s stomach roils remorsefully. “Yeah,” he nods, tightening his hands around Wade’s. “You’re right. Okay.”

Then Peter laughs tiredly and watches as Wade throws him an inquisitive look.

“For a second,” Peter winces at his own juvenileness. “I just thought you didn’t want to.”

“You thought I didn’t want you?” Wade plays with Peter’s fingers like he’s kneading Play-Doh. He watches Peter for a moment, then laughs. “Sometimes, I think you forget, Bambi.”

Peter shrugs at him uncomprehendingly.

“That I’m a man,” Wade clarifies. “Under all this mutant stage-makeup, I am only human, darling. And if you think for one second that I don’t want to fuck you, then you are tripping mega acid. When said I had dreams about your ankles around my neck, I wasn’t doing it for the art of dirty talk.”

The buzz of excitability that had left Peter during their moment of eye-opening discussion revives itself with a vengeance.

“You know, we had an accord that you’d tell me your spank bank material. But I’m going to make the executive decision to cash in that win later. I’ll start first because we both know I’m the sharer here.”

Peter sits straight in alarm when Wade’s hands retract and he sits up tall on the bed, towering still somehow over Peter.

“I think about it all the time, sweetheart,” Wade says, then reaches out gently to press a hand to Peter’s chest. He gives the softest push and Peter allows himself to fall down on the bed, laying on his back as Wade crawls closer. “I don’t need to ask you what you think about because I reckon I already know. You think about us fucking. You think about me inside of you. That’s what you think about, right? You said you wanted me to fuck you, which means in that pretty, little head of yours, you’ve got yourself pinned as a bottom.”

Peter blinks as Wade settles next to him, head propped up on a fist as he looks at Peter hungrily. Peter can feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks and the roughness of his clothing as he relaxes just an inch from Peter’s body.

“I can work with that, lovely,” Wade agrees, reaching up to comb Peter’s hair off of his forehead. “Because I think about us having a good fuck constantly. I told you that when I first met you, I noticed those eyes. But did I tell you what I thought of?”

Peter watches as Wade licks his own lips and copies him, his breaths coming faster as he silently asks Wade to continue.

“I thought of how pretty you’d look crying on my dick,” Wade says and Peter feels the lava licking up his thighs. “I thought of how I’d be gentle with you,” he whispers, taking in Peter’s expressive face with thirst. There’s something about the way Wade speaks, words sure and in control aloud, but their meaning hinting at some primal lack of restraint that makes Peter hungry. What would it be like, Peter wonders, for Wade to lose just a bit of his iron control with Peter? In between gentle touches and tender kisses, if he just allowed himself to be unchecked for a moment like he does sometimes when they’re at the peak of their pleasure. What then?

Breathing shakily, Peter allows his head to fall back further, chin tilted up and relaxes further into the bed. Wade carries on like he’s been given a nod of permission.

“But it’d still hurt at first, wouldn’t it?” Wade murmurs it slowly, almost with caution. Peter’s breath catches at the imagery behind his words, the meaning behind the words, and Wade continues as though he never paused. “As soon as I pushed in, your eyes would well up with tears. Your lashes would get sticky and wet, but you wouldn’t want me to stop, right, baby?”

Wade leans down skimming his lips over Peter’s cheek, eyes falling shut at Peter’s gasp. He pulls back languidly, eyes roving over Peter’s face again. “And when I finally got around to fucking that tight ass of yours, you’d love it. You’d moan and thrash and cry harder. And by the time you came, there’d be tears streaming down your face. And then I’d lick them off of your cheeks, not because I’m being nice.” Peter whines and Wade smiles. “But because those tears were mine.”

Peter can feel himself aching by now. It doesn’t cease to amaze him how Wade can switch him from zero to a hundred under almost any circumstance. He likes it when Wade talks, laying there clothed beside him. It almost feels like how it did when they were talking on the phone.

“You want to be mine, don’t you, Peter?” His hand, a heavy but welcome weight, slides over Peter’s stuttering heart. Peter watches it dumbly, teeth gnashing into his own lips, feeling the soft puffs of Wade’s breath tickle his red cheeks.

Peter bites down harder on his lip, willing himself silent. He doesn’t want to say anything stupid. Inside of him is a raging, smoldering desire radiating from where Wade’s hand is throughout his body. Churning in his chest, down to his toes, and up over his shoulders, licking and scorching at the back of his neck. The blistering flame feels nearly virulent. Nearly sentient. All of a sudden, he feels drunk as it blazes and melts with whispers. He’s already Wade’s.

But more importantly: _Wade is his._

Of its own mind, Peter’s hand clasps around Wade’s wrist, fingers unerringly finding his pulse. Wrists are weak points in the human body; small, fragile bones awkwardly stacked, practically begging to be snapped. Yet, Wade’s wrists are like the rest of him: thick and strong. Not weak at all. Imbibed with flexibility and steadiness that allows him to command a medley of weapons for his work. For Peter.

Peering up at Wade through half-lidded eyes, Peter wordlessly coaxes him to continue.

“When we first got in here,” Wade says softly, free hand lazily stroking down Peter’s neck and tracing his clavicle, unseen sparks left behind from his touch. “I was going to have you lay on your belly and fasten your hands to the headboard with those handcuffs we spoke about.”

Peter’s eyes dart to the bedside table.

“I was planning on restraining you very nicely, giving you a pillow, and having a damn good time watching as you humped it until you came. Or got frustrated enough to call out for me.”

Wade just smirks as Peter’s hips squirm.

“Bu you need something different, don’t you? Do me a favor, sweetpea, and open the drawer in the bedside table.”

Peter blinks quizzically for a moment, listless and confused. His mind is still latched onto the words Wade had been weaving. He’s still stuck on the story, imagining himself and Wade, caught up in a whirlwind of messy tears and frantic thrusting. Superficially, it sounds just like every other sexual encounter they’ve had: fantastic. Wade’s right though. Peter had been thinking of himself bottoming ever since he’d had phone sex with Wade. Almost every night—along with his other dark and twisted thoughts that no, no, he doesn’t mention aloud to himself—even after coming in from an energetic patrol.

And now Wade’s given him some ear candy and wants him to follow directions? It seems almost impossible. Peter has to deliberately push himself up. His bones creak and he feels tight in his own body, the adrenaline starting to stew throughout his muscles at a percolating boil. But he manages. For Wade and his patient demeanor, Peter manages. He leans over to the table and opens the drawer.

“Get the lube.”

Peter’s brain tries to catch up with him. His sight, usually so perfect, seems blurry and useless. He stares dumbly at the drawer. It takes too long for him to finally be able to see its contents. There’s a lighter, a spiral notebook, a set of keys, a box of tissues, and a half-empty bottle that must be the lubrication. Peter snatches it from the drawer and gulps as he shifts the contents. With a little jingle, the aforementioned adamantium handcuffs reveal themselves. They glimmer in the soft light of the room.

“Not today,” Wade calls.

Peter shuts the drawer obediently with another heavy swallow before awkwardly retreating back into his previous position on the bed. Wade’s still waiting, calmly. His pants are tented viciously, but he still looks relaxed and focused. When Peter eases back down, he looks at the bottle in his hands curiously. He’s seen lube before. Of course. Like at the pharmacy when he wandered into the wrong aisle. He’d always been too embarrassed to purchase some, afraid that the news would get back to Aunt May somehow.

So he’s stuck with the lotion technique if he needs to guard against chafing. It’s a staple of every growing boy’s night kit. But he’s always been curious.

Now faced with the real thing, though, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. He stares at the liquid in the bottle, tilting the bottle just a tad to test its viscosity, then blinks and holds it up to Wade a little cluelessly.

Wade had been watching the entire exchange with an overly amused look. “My scientist,” Wade says through a toothy smile. “We haven’t used this before. You’re usually wet enough that we don’t need it. Should we do an experiment, baby?”

Peter feels a playful grin tease at his lips. He nods.

With a responding chuckle, Wade leans down to kiss Peter. Hand still gripping the bottle, Peter relaxes in delight, letting the firm movements of Wade’s lips and tongue direct him back into a soupy haze.

When Wade pulls back, they both have hooded eyes and flushed faces. Wordlessly, Wade takes the bottle from Peter and opens it with a practiced thumb. Then he squirts the lube right on to Peter’s chest. It lands coldly and wetly and Peter yelps in shock, eyes looking at Wade accusingly.

And in bafflement.

That’s not where lube goes.

“Relax, angel. Why so serious?” Wade huffs out, still grinning. He drops the bottle to Peter’s side and presses his fingers into the pile of goo. It warms up spectacularly quickly. But Peter still pouts up at Wade with a peeved expression.

“Hm,” he tells Wade. Because that totally says enough. There will be no more squirting of lubrication onto Peter’s unsuspecting body parts without warming it up first. That’s a thing. Peter does have access to the internet. Wade’s just a jerk.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Wade sings, bestowing an affectionate kiss to Peter’s forehead. “Here, baby boy, let me make it better.”

His wet fingers find Peter’s left nipple and stroke over it apologetically. The lack of friction—the slipperiness in combination with the roughened pad of Wade’s scarred thumb makes Peter shudder violently. Wade gives him a moment to adjust to the feeling, before introducing his index finger to pluck delicately at the hardening skin.

Peter moans when the fingers tug, then ease their way into a pinch that has him tossing his head back and his cock throbbing.

Okay.

Maybe lube is better than tacky lotion. Maybe Peter very much is entitled to his curiosity and should have gotten over his embarrassment because if it feels this good here, his mind foams at the thought of how good it would feel on his cock. How good Wade’s slick fist would feel around him.

Peter didn’t even notice how his hand had been reaching in between his own legs until Wade makes a disgruntled sound and catches it quickly. Wade fixes Peter with a stern look, kisses the back of his hand once, then places it right above Peter’s head in a voiceless command.

Wade’s hand abandons Peter’s chest and finds its way to Peter’s legs, long fingers trailing along the insides of his thighs.

“You’re impatient,” Wade tells him and Peter can’t stop the affronted huff from escaping his lips.

He’s impatient? Peter has been half-hard since he walked through the bedroom door, even throughout their real talk, and now he’s nearly purple with how much he needs release. His heart is racing, his erection has a pulse of its own, and he’s drowning in his own sweat. He’d been very obliging while Wade had bathed him with lube in all the wrong places and played with him teasingly.

“You’re slow,” Peter retorts, just as petulant as before.

Wade looks hawkish. “Brat,” he says like it’s more of a compliment than a reprimand. He looks like he’s planning something. There’s a ferocity in his eyes and a light that speaks to foreshadowing, but it extinguishes quickly when Wade shrugs lightly. Too lightly to be sincere. “Want me to jerk you off, baby boy?”

Peter stares at him, the suspicion wafting up into the salty air between them. The answer is “yes”. Why yes, Peter would like it very much if Wade did. But why does it the answer get lodged in Peter’s throat, unwilling to emerge?

Wade’s eyes are rounded and soft. “You want it, baby boy, all you need to do is ask.”

Peter hesitates momentarily before nodding timidly, looking for the catch. However Wade hums, rubs his hand through the lube on Peter’s chest twice, then wraps around him like a vice and starts stroking him so fast that Peter cries out in astonishment, nearly overwhelmed. There’s no period of Wade easing him into it. Wade just starts up a punishing speed right away. His hand is so hot and so tight and so wet and Peter slams his head back onto the pillow. It’s too much, too soon. He’s going to come in like three seconds and it’s going to be one of those times when it’s too fast to feel good.

Peter used to do that all the time, work himself fast and relentlessly. And then he met Wade, and Wade taught him how much better it was when it’s drawn out and slow. Now, sure, Peter’s a bit addicted to slow and steady winning the race. Peter doesn’t want this to end yet. His hands fly to grasp at Wade’s wrist, but Wade doesn’t ease up. Peter’s eyes blink open to where Wade’s watching him predatorily.

“Not yet!” Peter bites out, face twisted and body taut, attempting to hold his orgasm back.

“Listen carefully, doll, I’m going to give you a choice,” Wade says softly in contrast to the movements of his hand. Peter’s eyes lock on his and he trembles.

Peter tries to make a questioning sound, but the inquisitiveness probably gets lost in a whimper as Wade tightens his grip.

“If you want, you can let me jerk you off and you can come right now, baby boy. Or, if you want it to last, I’ll take my hand away. But if you tell me to stop, then I get to choose when you come.”

What?

“You ask sometimes,” Wade says with a shrug, hand still moving. Peter struggles to focus on his words. “I like it when you ask. You look all sweet. Do you like it when you have my permission?”

Peter mewls behind clenched teeth. Wade sounds thoughtful, considering a hypothesis, while Peter is floundering. Peter is battling the instincts urging him to push into Wade’s hold and chase completion.

“If you ask me this time, I’ll say no and I’m going to laugh when you cry.” Peter nearly chokes on his own gasp. “You can come right now, or we can make it last like you want, baby boy. For real, Peter. You think we play a game, but it’s not a game, is it, puppy? You just have to give yourself to me for a while.”

 _Giving._ Those are Peter’s words, dolled up with sensuality, and thrown right back at him.

“That’s your choice,” Wade offers. “Come now or be a very good boy and let me take my hand away. Let me play with you and save your orgasm for me. Let me give you a little of what you wanted when you got in here. You know I hate telling you no. Which one, baby?”

That is evil. It’s just not right. Peter’s this close to coming and at Wade’s fervent words, he almost lets go. He’s almost powerless to do anything but let go. His choice is to come somewhat unfulfilling and fast. He debates it for the briefest moment and it must show because Wade looks the barest bit disappointed. He wants to know what Wade means though. What’s a little of what Peter had wanted? When Peter got in here, he’d wanted them to fuck. There’s no _little_ in relation to that.

“M’kay,” Peter hiccups, nodding. “Stop,” he pleads, hands tightening around Wade’s wrist. It is relief mixed with primal discontent when the hand disappears. Peter whines in loss, despite asking for it. Wade’s there to soothe him immediately. He curls in closer around Peter, raining kisses on his face and neck. His clean hand slips into Peter’s hair, rubbing at his scalp, just as he touches their lips together.

“Thank you, Peter,” he murmurs, nuzzling Peter’s cheek and pressing himself to Peter’s trembling form, offering sympathy. “Thank you, sweetheart, I know. I’ll make it worth your time, baby.”

Peter feels his body reluctantly pull away from the edge. He settles, despite himself, easily swayed into Wade’s comfort. He soaks up each touch like the dry earth does rain. Wade’s always so tender with him. So worshipful. It almost makes him feel like royalty. Hands shaking, Peter reaches up and touches him desperately. He runs his own hands over Wade’s body, nearly tearing the shirt off of him. Wade chuckles and allows it, easily going along with Peter’s frantic movements. His mangled shirt follows in the direction of Peter’s abandoned clothing. Peter’s hands find skin and muscle, touching greedily. The vibrations of Wade’s soft sounds of pleasure at Peter’s touch reverberate between them. Peter can feel Wade’s heart singing to him underneath his fingertips.

He claws a little at Wade’s skin, ducking under Wade’s chin to mouth at his neck and along his shoulders. Peter’s own skin is absolutely crawling with desire and anticipation. He’s still hard, aching, and a half-breath away from shooting off. It’s instinct that has him shifting his weight to snake a leg up and, around where Wade’s knee is planted on the mattress and hooks it around Wade’s waist. He pulls Wade down with minimal effort. For a blissful moment, he’s trapped Wade: muscling him down and rubbing up against him with a moan.

He feels Wade grin against his shoulder. A little nip and sting of teeth has Peter gasping and then Wade’s hand palms Peter’s thigh, copping a distinct squeeze. “Naughty,” Wade rasps out before he cups Peter’s knee and shoves it to Peter’s chest. Or, he tries to. But Peter’s is quite impressively clamped around him.

Actually, it can’t be quite comfortable.

Peter leans back, head pushing into the pillow, to look Wade in the eyes. Wade’s face is flushed. His eyes are gleaming. He’s panting and licking his lips and he looks delectably turned on.

Peter feels devious when he releases Wade’s waist and pulls his leg up easily, knee hooking on Wade’s shoulder, letting his calf drape over Wade’s back. Playfully, he digs his heel into the small of Wade’s back, rubbing the material of his sock into Wade’s spine. A laugh bubbles out of him when Wade’s eyes clamp shut and he presses his face into the inside of Peter’s thigh, nosing nuzzling into his knee.

“Brattiest brat, I thought you were going to give me a little more control this time, hmph? Can’t help yourself, can you?” When Wade laughs breathily back, Peter feels the soft puffs tickle him enough that Peter’s laughter increases.

“You’re very, very bendy,” Wade tells Peter’s knee earnestly, kissing it in gratitude. “If you ever decide to be a superhero, we should call you Elastiboy.”

Peter, whose hands were unconsciously curled around Wade’s biceps in a silent appreciation of his body, freezes the briefest bit in an awkward way. He’s all sprawled out, naked, hard, and tangled with Wade. He’s strung up with lust and the switch over to shock is one that his body doesn’t fully cooperate with. It manifests as Peter’s hands digging into Wade’s arms too hard and Peter blinking up at Wade stupidly.

Wade notices the slight change immediately and looks up to Peter questioningly.

It’s that Peter’s horny. That has to be it. He’s horny and Wade’s crouched above him like a god, body coiled with promise. Peter’s high off of hormones with a loose tongue, so he huffs at Wade, “You mean Elasti- _Man_.”

Without missing a beat, Wade shifts more firmly onto his knees, drags his hand through the mess of tacky lube on Peter’s chest, and cups Peter’s balls with enough finesse that Peter’s head drops back to the pillow.

“Uh-huh,” Wade nods seriously, clearly playing along. “Very much a man.”

It’s a second of pleasure that has Peter jerking again, then Wade’s hand is gone. And Wade’s gone. Because he’s sitting up, using both hands to push Peter’s legs back against his chest. He shimmies his way down the mattress, pops a very perfunctory kiss to the head of Peter’s cock that has Peter squeaking, then settles down between Peter’s legs.

“You said no to the foreplay, right?” Wade raises an eyebrow at him, snorting at Peter’s quizzical expression and breezy nod, and that’s all the introduction Peter gets before Wade’s diving in.

Peter, who’s been consistently reliving the first time Wade rimmed him to an obsessive extent, keens at the first few broad licks of Wade’s tongue. Peter’s legs have a mind of their own and disobediently abandon the position Wade placed them in. In less than a second, Peter’s got both feet planted on the bed, providing the perfect leverage to twist his hips. But the position isn’t as good as the one they first tried. Peter can tell because it doesn’t matter how much he squirms, he can’t get Wade’s tongue inside the way he wants it to. Instead of feeling it the way it had before, deep and intense, this time Wade’s tongue skirts around, shallow and teasing. It’s not enough. He needs more.

It’s when Wade pulls back abruptly that Peter realizes he must have been vocally frustrated. He feels wrung out and frazzled. When Wade sits up, his hands moving to spread against Peter’s obliques soothing. Wade looks at him in concern and it takes him a beat to read Peter’s contrasting reactions correctly: an unsatisfied sound of protest and a massive pout. Peter catches Wade’s eyes and his muscles tensing with anticipation under Wade’s hands.

In a snap of time, Wade understands and he grins mischievously. “Yeah,” he mutters to himself, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of Peter. “We’re fucking doing this.”

Wade extracts himself from between Peter’s legs and flops down onto his back next to him. When he falls into place, the mattress shakes under his weight. His long legs sprawled over the bed and his head bouncing on a pillow. His grin remains, solidified in place, as Peter blinks at him.

“Come here,” Wade says with a little head nod.

Peter looks at him in confusion. Yet he absolutely trusts Wade and Wade’s madness, so he rolls and presses himself to Wade’s side. Peter reaches out with one palm to touch the topography of scars, sliding through sweat, and feeling the ridges of Wade’s musculature.

“Come here,” Wade repeats, more softly now, and he tugs Peter gently by the elbow until Peter finds himself straddling Wade. Seated on his abdomen, Peter has a stunning view of Wade’s startlingly broad shoulders. And Wade’s face, which is an amalgam of tenderness, heat, and mischief. Wade yanks at Peter’s thighs, urging him to slide upwards.

“Up,” Wade coaxes, guiding him like a handler does a horse. He murmurs a rift of nonsensical sweetness, like Peter’s about to spook. It doesn’t really occur to Peter why he might be doing that until he’s been walked all the way toward the headboard. When Wade suddenly, slips his arms through Peter’s legs, hands landing on his thighs encouragingly, Peter freezes. His eyes go wide, and he blinks down at Wade’s face.

Which is pretty much directly below him.

“Um,” Peter coughs. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Wade smiles engagingly, looking charming at the same time he seems to be scanning Peter for signs of protest. Wade indubitably interprets Peter’s wariness and confusion, which is why his thumbs swipe soothingly on Peter’s skin. “How’s it going up there?”

“The weather’s just fine,” Peter’s mouth babbles. It’s definitely connected to his brain, which is breaking at the way Wade’s large hands nudge him forward gently and encouragingly.

“You know where you’re going?”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes uselessly. A blessing, perhaps, because the only thing he can think to reply with is that he’s certainly not going off to see the wizard. No, he does _not_ know where he is going, but judging by the current course of trajectory, it seems a lot like Peter is heading towards a particular place.

“I want you to sit on my face,” Wade says, nonchalantly continuing as Peter sputters and blushes. “It’s not much different from what we’ve already done. Except on a different axis. You’re good with axes, I remember your lesson about coordinate planes.”

It is incredible that just a few seconds ago, Peter felt absolutely fine with shoving his ass against Wade’s face, but now that he’s faced with the opportunity to do so again, he feels petrified.

“Hey,” Wade says suddenly, hands patting Peter’s thighs. Peter jumps, startled out of his own thoughts.

“Hi,” he replies hastily.

“What do you say when you want to stop?”

Peter, whose hands have found the headboard and are currently digging into it too hard, gulps around his dry mouth. “Stop?”

“Stop. Drop. Roll,” Wade confirms. “No, don’t [touch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIj0GVsgQFQ) me there. [Free](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5j8FKqVofM) shavacado. [Guac-guacamole](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFmr_TZLpS0). Or any variation thereof,” But Peter isn’t really listening very closely because he’s staring very intently at Wade’s mouth. Wade’s lips are so soft and his mouth is so _hot_ and he’s stupidly attractive. Even Wade’s chin is attractive. Wade is laying there, offering a chance for Peter to opt out, but Peter doesn’t want an out. Rather, he wants this so badly that his heart starts to spin. But it’s awkward, isn’t it? It’s a distinctly unnatural position. One that can’t be very dignified for Wade, right?

“What if I do something you don’t like?” Peter asks, “What if I do it wrong?”

“There’s no way to do it wrong,” Wade says reassuringly, his tone as sweet as maple syrup.

Peter, despite his excitement, is not so sure. “What if I hurt you or something?”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Wade’s expression twists in a telltale manner that says he wants to laugh. “Although, it’s very touching that you keep thinking you can hurt me, boo bear.”

Peter could hurt him if he wanted to. He rolls his neck a little at the thought, contemplating it.

He doesn’t want to, of course.

“I could hurt you!” Peter feels his anxiety slipping away just as the pout begins to form on his lips. Wade looks extremely doubtful. “I could and I don’t want to, so I’m asking!”

Wade’s grinning like an idiot now, hands moving from Peter’s thighs, unweaving, and settling on his hips. “You won’t,” Wade says firmly, speaking over Peter’s intent to protest. “You won’t because I wouldn’t let you. Do I look like someone who’s going to let myself get hurt?”

A quick, very vivid image of Deadpool throwing himself into a hoard of armed guards at Stark Tower makes Peter reluctant to answer that question truthfully. So much bloodshed. For him. Peter feels something crawling its way up the ladder of his spine at the memory.

Wade winces like he’s caught on to Peter’s train of thought.

“How about this? There’s no way I’d let either of us get hurt during sexy times because all I’ve done since day one is try to _not_ traumatize you in hopes that you’ll continue dating me.”

Well, that sounds believable.

Peter’s agreement is shown on his face and Wade makes a happy sound before frowning sadly at Peter’s waning erection. “I can fix that,” he offers hopefully. Peter snorts and then is pulled forward.

He freezes again though.

Immediately Wade’s hands run up his back, once again soothing Peter’s resurfacing hesitation. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Petey. It’s just me,” Wade says and Peter chances a look down at him to find sincerity in his eyes. “Come here.”

It’s just Wade.

“I want you, baby boy,” Wade flashes him a wayward grin. “Gimme dat ass, Petey, I’ve been craving a taste since before you got here.”

Yeah.

It’s just Wade.

The nervousness is building without a foundation. Peter nods at Wade and leans back into his grip. It’s easier when Wade pulls him into the position he’s supposed to be in. Wade doesn’t allow him much time to freak out because as soon as he settles Peter in, his tongue is back to where it had been previously making a home. It takes a minute before Peter can shake off the stinging feeling of anticipation. He feels Wade’s hands shift again and his mind finally goes silent. After that, it’s all meticulous strokes and wrenching flicks of Wade’s agile tongue. Soft lips curled and sucking; Peter quivering as his anxieties dissipate into vapor. It floats out of his head and gut, an all-consuming, sultry incalescence taking its place.

Hands tightening on the headboard, Peter’s body works with a mind of its own. By the power of sheer will, he gets his weight under his own control. He doesn’t realize he’s moving, chasing his own pleasure until he feels Wade moaning appreciatively beneath him. The sound reverberates through his body, shocking him enough into awareness that Peter’s eyes—which had apparently closed—open and he stops moving, rooted still as he recognizes what he’s been doing.

Wade makes a sound of disappointment and pulls back minutely to whisper, “Don’t stop, Peter.” His hands dig into Peter’s thighs, nails raking along the trembling skin. “C’mon, kitten, you don’t have to stop. Get aggressive with me. Take what you want.”

Wade’s voice is rough and impassioned. In the moment it takes for Peter to comprehend his words, Wade’s hands are already guiding Peter’s hips back into a steady rock. Back and forth, a distinct swivel that pushes Wade’s tongue just right, into the exact place that Peter likes it. Peter doesn’t even pay attention to the sound that falls out of his mouth. He’s already in a daze once again. He doesn’t know how long they remain like this. Time is a complicated concept, its intricacies fading in the face of sparkling bliss. Peter probably couldn’t remember his own name let alone estimate if they’ve been here for three or thirty minutes. The only thing he can do is drop a restless hand from the headboard behind him to Wade’s sternum, feeling his overheated, sweaty skin eagerly. The motion sends Peter’s cock bouncing off of his abdomen angrily and just like that, the honeyed state of arousal transforms into urgency. And when Wade pulls him off of him, sending Peter and him into a tangled mess of twisted limbs, the urgency becomes spiced with affronted vexation. But Peter’s bouncing a little on the mattress and Wade’s flushed and fumbling. Peter’s catching his breath when he hears the soft snick of the lube, a wet sound, and then Wade’s pushing in between his legs in a way that makes Peter’s heart stutter.

Peter’s utterly entranced by the way Wade looks. So much so that it takes Wade jostling his arm to capture his attention.

“My eyes are up here,” Wade says with a saucy grin. Even through the restraints of arousal, Peter giggles, reminded of the first time Wade had used this line on him at Weasel’s. Wade is glowing. Painfully hard, by the looks of it, but glowing at Peter’s obvious perusal of his body.

Emboldened by Wade, Peter licks his dry lips and gives him what he sincerely hopes is an enticing, flirtatious look. Coquettish, provocative, something other than silly. He does his best, cocking an eyebrow and using his lashes because he’s quite certain that’s what Wade likes. “I’d rather be down there,” he replies with an indicative glance at Wade’s erection. He licks his lips again because that’s what people [do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pno-QZRmmyk), right?

Peter is singularly pleased to see the precise moment that Wade’s brain seems to replay the statement a few times, looking dumbfounded. The moment is fleeting though. Wade gives him a vulturous look, face just a hint darker. “Don’t you worry about me, pumpkin. I’m having a hell of a time. Can I finger you?”

He says it so bluntly that Peter feels affectionate. But at the same a sharp thrill of desire courses through him.

Wade’s smile tames itself. He sits up a tad, hand caressing Peter’s forearm. “Take a minute to think about it.”

“Yes,” Peter says immediately.

Wade frowns. “You didn’t take a minute.”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

Wade’s suddenly looks adamant. “Yes, you do.”

Without hesitation, Peter reaches up and pinches the skin on Wade’s elbow. Wade jumps with a pout. Sorry, not sorry.

“No, I don’t,” he says. He doesn’t need the safety scissors all the time. Some things, Peter is certain of. “I already thought about it on my own time.”

A staring contest commences. Peter is headstrong and unyielding though. Soon enough, Wade finds whatever it is he was searching for and acquiesces visibly. He doesn’t ask if Peter’s done it before because he already knows. They’ve talked about this in roundabout ways.

Peter’s already meeting him halfway when Wade bends to kiss him. Peter answers every question Wade might have with an assurance spelled out by his tongue and lips, rubbing at Wade’s flanks as if to punctuate his decision. One of Wade’s hands slips between Peter and the mattress, fingers curving around the nape of Peter’s neck, his thumb pressing into the small divot at the base. Peter smiles a little when Wade kisses his cheeks, most certainly chasing his freckles. And then he feels the knuckles of Wade’s other hand gingerly running along the inside of his left thigh.

It’s sort of a reflex that makes Peter flinch when Wade’s hand gets close to his perineum. Wade stops without a comment. But he doesn’t pull away. He just traces mindless patterns over Peter’s skin, allowing Peter to get used to him. He does the same thing with wet fingers, tracing over Peter’s taint and down to the furled muscle below. Peter’s already wet and open from Wade’s tongue, but he instinctively clenches up when Wade’s finger brushes over him delicately. Touches, gentle, and a hodgepodge of understanding murmurs, Wade’s fingers remain tenacious in their quiet exploration. Wade distracts Peter well with his mouth: a kiss here, a lick there, a very well-placed nip here and there until Peter feels hedonistic.

Peter hums heedlessly when Wade tells him, “Deep breath, sweetheart,” his hands pulling at Wade’s face and shoulder to cradle him close.

That’s when he finally slips a finger inside of him.

Barely a finger.

It must be his fingertip. Probably. But for all intents and purposes, it feels like a rolling pin lodged up in a place it shouldn’t be. To say Peter tightens up is an understatement.

Wade’s retreating already.

“No!” Peter yelps a little too loudly. “It’s fine, I just…you know.”

Wade’s lips quirk again, “You have to get used to it. Not going anywhere, mon trésor, just helping out.”

Him swallowing Peter down his throat?

Definitely helps out.

Peter moans raggedly at the velvety feel of Wade’s tongue and suddenly, the sensation of penetration doesn’t feel as invasive. Paired with clever swallows, it feels barely intrusive. It’s not necessarily pleasurable, but it’s not damningly uncomfortable either. In fact, Peter reckons as Wade skillfully slips his finger inside of him millimeter by millimeter at a glacial pace, the sensation enhances how nicely Wade’s mouth feels around him. It’s more than tolerable. Peter can very contentedly lay through this.

It’s when Wade starts wriggling his finger around that Peter squirms, unsure of what to do with the feeling.

Wade’s mouth undergoes a quick relocation, pressing a kiss to Peter’s stomach before nuzzling it lightly. “I only need one, baby,” he says, words stifled by Peter’s skin.

Peter looks down at him uncomprehendingly, muscles twitching intuitively as Wade moves his finger.

Wade returns the look with, eyes focused and strangely intense. “Remember I said I had gentle fingers? It was part of the Ph.D.”

“Why,” Peter croaks around a dry throat, knees jerking when Wade’s finger shifts and a pull of sensation echoes the movement. Like when he jumps from a high building, the feel of being hooked by the navel. “Are you looking at me like t-that?”

Ridiculously, Wade shrugs. Actually shrugs as he is parked between Peter’s legs with a finger shoved up Peter’s ass. His face turns fiendish and playfully secretive. “I don’t wanna miss it.”

“Miss wha—”

The end of that inquiry turns into demonic babble because Peter’s body is abruptly catapulted into a sizzling seizure of white, piping heat. Neurons firing off into flame and smoke and it’s all too much at once. Peter’s entire body jerks as though it was kicked from across the room, suspended in the air for a minute before dropping heavily to the mattress. His eyes squeeze shut and his teeth gnash into his tongue because everything feels so good that the sensation flirts with agony.

“Oh, my God,” Peter wheezes around a mewl. 

“That’s the spot, eh, baby boy?” Wade’s probably amused, chewing on a chuckle at Peter’s spastic reaction. “Peter,” he barks suddenly, “Keep your eyes open.”

It’s more than a struggle to obey; the challenge made more difficult as Wade’s finger pumps in and out of him just enough that his fingertip works up to a rhythmic massage. Each tug brings a hurricane of pleasure, pulsating with the hasty tempo of Peter’s heartbeat. Mouth dropped open to inhale a choked breath, Peter pries his eyes open to meet Wade’s.

“That’s a good boy, sweetheart,” Wade croons, eyes meandering aimlessly over Peter’s body like he can’t decide where to focus. They gobble up the sight Peter makes with greed. “This is one thing my tongue can’t do, huh?” he says with a huff of amusement and a twist of his fingers that pulls a sob from Peter.

When Peter imagined fingering, he always pictured it as something perfunctory. A transitional stage. Preparation for something else, not the main event. But the way Wade masterfully works his finger changes Peter’s perspective right away. Now, fingers wringing in his hair and back bowed, Peter feels the finale approaching faster than he had anticipated it would. He’s a writhing, groaning mess, pushing back into Wade’s movements, and it doesn’t matter if no one’s touching his cock. He doesn’t need touch, he thinks. Wade’s fist is a thought of the past; his finger is all Peter care about right now.

Which is, of course, when Wade’s finger disappears. Peter’s left gaping and empty, a mere second away from orgasm. And Wade’s sitting up.

“Up-a-daisy,” Wade laughs at Peter’s soft cry. With soft, but firm hands, he turns Peter over and hefts him up into a kneeling position. “Hands and knees, darlin’.”

A hand pats on Peter’s back. Sure enough, he’s pushed to balance on his hands and knees. A quick flurry of motion later and Wade’s coating Peter’s inner thighs with a generous amount of lubrication. Each brush of his palm is made up of lingering drags, kneading higher and higher on Peter’s legs until they draw back. Then Wade’s hands tap Peter’s knees. “Legs together. Like this,” Wade instructs, aiding Peter by guiding his movements. “Keep ‘em closed, tight. Ain’t that the prettiest thing I ever did see?”

He feels Wade shuffle up the bed, pressed right behind him, so close that Peter can feel his heat. Peter’s brain, which is gone somewhere akin to Nirvana, knows what’s coming. He feels his entire body light up with excitement, keeping still least an unpredicted wriggle makes Wade change his mind. And when Wade’s cock, thick and hard, pushes between his legs, Peter moans uproariously, overshadowing whatever blissful hiss Wade produces. Wade’s talking his usual babble, but Peter is so invested in feeling Wade’s body that he doesn’t hear anything but the cadence of his voice. Peter’s world once again tunnels down to sensation: the head of Wade’s cock, bulbous against his thighs, leaving a trail of wetness behind as Wade pulls out. Peter tightens his thigh muscles eagerly as Wade pushes back in. It’s not fucking in the sense that Peter imagined, but it’s enough that Peter feels like he’s gotten exactly what he asked for. His hole still feels loose and stretched, the phantom pleasure of Wade nailing his prostate ghosting through him, and now Wade’s cock pulsing as it pushes against his perineum and under his balls. Peter loses the ability to hold himself up. He lets himself fall face first into the bed and scream.

And Wade—absolutely beautiful, lovely Wade—digs his fingers into Peter’s hair and shoves his face with the right amount of force into the duvet. Peter’s wail is muffled wonderfully, truncated into hiccups as each thrust of Wade’s hips sends them rocking. Wade fits one hand onto the nape of Peter’s neck. Then he drags his blunt nails down Peter’s spine and his thumb dips in to circle Peter’s hole.

“That’s it, baby boy,” Wade groans. “Look at how pliant you are. Just needed some taming, didn’t you?”

Peter mumbles into the duvet covet. It’s sopping wet with his own drool and tears.

“Can’t hear you, sweetheart,” Wade replies. His thumb retracts regardless of the protest Peter shouts. A moment later, Wade’s hand is right back in Peter’s hair, pulling his head up enough that Peter can finally breathe in cool air, crisp and biting against his heated face. “What was that?”

“Can you—just,” Peter gasps through a shallow breath.

Wade drapes himself over Peter’s back. He’s too tall and Peter’s too short. They don’t fit like this. Yet Wade curves himself so that he can rest his mouth to Peter’s ear. He wraps an arm around Peter’s waist to hold him still. “Go ahead, Peter. You wanna come, ask me, baby. Go on, ask.”

“Can I?” Peter bites out, turning to press his nose into Wade’s cheek. He can feel the muscles and scars twist as Wade grins.

“No,” Wade answers. “Me first.” At Peter’s whine, Wade’s entire body rumbles with a silent laugh. “Don’t like that, huh? It’s usually the other way ‘round. I spoil you too much.”

It doesn’t really matter what Wade says because Peter thinks he’s going to come anyway. He’s so close, riding the edge dangerously, and feeling Wade fucking his thighs just amplifies the feeling.

“Wade,” Peter warns breathily.

“Shush,” Wade says, kissing the delicate skin behind Peter’s ear. “Hold it. Let me use you first. Keep your legs pressed together.”

When Wade comes, Peter feels it. Each twitch, each pulse, each shudder; semen spraying against his stomach and Wade’s approving murmurs in the curve of his neck. Peter reacts like he’s possessed. He can’t take it anymore. No more teasing. With a quick inhalation, he plants his hands on the mattress and rolls. It’s easy to lift and move Wade’s considerable weight with him. Peter’s lifted heavier things. Wade’s sharp sound of astonishment says he might not have realized that though. Peter slithers out of Wade’s arms and twists. He straddles Wade’s body. He’s about to sit on Wade’s abdomen, his hands already reaching for Wade’s wrists when Wade surprises him by moving with impressive speed to sit up. And just like that, Peter finds himself in Wade’s lap, with Wade’s arms locked tightly around him and his hands on Wade’s shoulders. Peter looks up to Wade frantically and their eyes lock.

They stare at each other with bated breath.

“What are you doing?” Wade whispers softly into the charged air between them. “You gonna overpower me? Hold me down, baby? Take me, even though I didn’t say you could?”

That’s precisely what Peter had intended to do. It’s what he’s still very prepared to do. Wade may move fast, he may be exceptionally strong and a match for all of their rivals, but he’s no match for Peter. Just one push and Wade will be spread out on the mattress like an offering.

Peter swallows and licks his lips, unconsciously digging his nails into Wade’s shoulders.

“Baby boy,” Wade croons to him, breaking their eye contact to nuzzle Peter’s cheek. “You could, sure. But that’s not what you really want today, is it? That’s not what you wanted. You wanted to let me take care of you today. You wanted to be so good for me today.”

Peter jerks at his words, his own hands coming up to wrap around Wade’s neck.

Wade moans roughly. “You gonna fight me on it, darling? Do I need to work a little harder?”

Squeezing his eyes tight, trying to get a hold of himself, Peter trembles.

“Peter?” Wade asks, suddenly firm and contrasting from his playful dirty talk. “What do you say when you want me to stop?”

Peter pants into Wade’s neck, hiding under Wade’s chin.

It takes him a minute, but with as much sarcasm as he can muster, he replies. “Guacamole.”

Wade laughs boomingly and Peter takes that as his cue to bite him. The sharp nip evokes a startled moan from Wade that Peter feels vibrate down to his soul.

“Let me,” Peter tells him, rather than asks. “Let me come now.”

With a theatrical hum, as though he’s deliberating something profound, Wade shifts them. The slight movement breaks them apart, uncovering Peter’s face from where it was hidden. Now, Peter has a clear view of Wade as he sucks two fingers into his own mouth and pulls them out dripping with saliva.

“No,” Wade smiles and Peter’s not sure how he’s lasted this long anyway. He feels so wound up that he feels as though he’s about to go numb.

Peter’s less trained on Wade’s words than he is on those fingers because, are those going—yes. Those are going exactly where he’d hoped they would be. Peter prays that he doesn’t look so much like the idiot he feels he is when a wounded sound of need escapes him.

“Please?”

The last time Wade fingered him, Peter had moaned and whined and whimpered the entire time. Now, he’s just mewling pathetically, back into the safe space beneath Wade’s chin. Wade's finger feels smaller than it did before. Peter must be relaxed, he thinks distantly. He barely reacts when Wade slips a second finger very carefully next to the first. It takes eons for him to sink down to the third knuckle. It’s worth it though, even with Peter’s hurried impatience hammering in his mind, because his fingers curl impeccably against his prostate. Everything is perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Wade’s fingers? Perfect. The way Peter twines himself around Wade’s body, cock pressed to his stomach to gain relief? Perfect. How Wade begins to talk? Perfect.

“Please?” Peter repeats.

Wade kisses his temple sweetly. “Feels good?” His free hand reaches up to card through the nest of hair on Peter’s head.

“Yes.” The word comes out wet and uneven. “Please?”

“Not yet, baby, just a little more, okay?”

“No,” Peter hiccups, shaking his head. “Now, please?”

“You’ve done so well, this whole time.”

“Let me finish now, please?”

“Just one more thing, Peter, only one,” Wade cajoles, pulling at Peter’s hair to capture his attention.

“Anything,” Peter mumbles sloppily.

“Who am I?”

 _Oh_.

“Who am I, baby?” Wade continues, holding onto Peter’s hair like a lifeline. “In the back of your head, when you see me, who am I?”

Oh. Peter struggles under the tsunami building inside of him, pushing down onto Wade’s fingers with gusto. Wade doesn’t try to stop him, Wade just holds steady; his hand leaves Peter’s hair to wrap around his throat and, yes, Peter likes that. He’s always liked that and for some reason, he thought Wade forgot. He didn’t though, of course. He was just waiting for the best opportunity to pull out a winning card.

“Don’t you remember our deal? Tell me what you think about when you jerk off. Tell me what gets you hot and horny when you’re in bed at night. Tell me what gets you shooting like a rocket when you’re in the shower. Tell me what you think of me. What do you want to call me, baby boy?”

Peter whimpers, biting his tongue.

“You don’t need to keep _this_ a secret, Peter. I knew we’d fit together this way when I saw you walk into _Sister Margaret’s_ for the first time, looking like a lost lamb. Just say it for me, baby boy.”

Wade stares down at Peter, concupiscent, yet affectionate. Wade talks a lot. Usually whatever Peter wants to hear, Wade finds it and reenacts it. But this moment is very clearly for the both of them. Peter shivers violently on Wade’s fingers.

“I’m sorry I tease you sometimes, Petey, I just can’t help it. I want to hear you say it. I know, I’m a selfish shit and I’m no good for you, but I promise I’m always going to be good to you, baby boy. I promise, sweetheart, I promise. Will you say it once, baby boy?”

Peter can’t say it. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s already riding the first waves of an orgasm so intense that his higher thinking powers off. Dipped in magma, a fire starts in his core and radiates out: ruby red, the color of flames [burning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDG-XE7Z-7s) strontium chloride. So hot and intense in their burning that Peter can’t talk. He doesn’t even realize when he’s done shooting out release, Wade’s manhandling him back horizontally on the bed, talking and talking. He doesn’t feel the usual desist in orgasm. Instead, he feels one wave after the other, molding together. Peter’s crying and glued to Wade. The last thing sees vividly is Wade’s heterochromatic eyes regarding him with affection.

“Just sleep, Bambi,” Wade tells him. “You did good.”

Still shivering like he’s hypothermic, Peter forces his mouth to work. “I d-didn’t s-say it.”

Wade seems to move a bit awkwardly and then, he’s folding the duvet around Peter securely. He cuddles in close. “I heard it loud and clear, baby boy.”

-

Peter’s completed passed out when he hears the sound of a ringtone bursting through the bedroom. His first instinct is to wake up, eyes opening quickly. He’s so used to waking up in the early hours of the morning for work that he reacts without recognizing that the ringtone isn’t his. It’s only when Wade, spooned up behind him, shifts, curses, and reaches over Peter’s body to the bedside table that Peter makes a confused sound. As he does, Wade flattens himself on top of Peter and mumbles at him to go back to sleep.

“Back to sleep, rock-a-bye baby, it’s my call.”

There’s a sound of plastic hitting plastic, then a drawer being slammed shut. And finally, the ringtone is silenced as Wade presumably reaches the phone. When Wade slips back into place, all but snuggling Peter like he’s an overgrown teddy bear, Peter allows himself to close his eyes again. He’s exhausted. His body feels like he took an adventure through a woodchipper. It’s easy to relax back into Wade’s warmth and a state of half-sleep. He’s not really alert, but vaguely aware of the world around him. It won’t take him long to fall back into a heavy sleep. Deep sleep beckons at the forefront of his mind, colors and lights converging into shapes behind his eyelids. He hears the faraway sound of Wade’s voice like he’s speaking through cotton.

“Mister Wilson is my father, but I’ll answer for the bastard anyway,” Wade brings a hand up to cup the back of Peter’s head. He pets Peter’s hair, probably trying absent-mindedly to tame its spikes. To no avail, of course. Even a sleeping Peter knows his hair is rebellious on a good day.

“Yeah, no, I’ve been waiting for the call. Weasel said you’d be in contact.”

Peter hums and scoots backward to press himself tighter against Wade. This way, he can feel Wade’s hushed voice against his back more than he can actually hear it. The vibrations work like a rocking chair, coaxing him further into dreamland.

“Sensitive, eh? I’m sensitive, too, on my mother’s side. And what can I do you for?”

The start of Peter’s dream creeps up on him teasingly. His muscles are lax and heavy, sinking into the dragging tides of a hazy paralysis. He can already see the inception of true images—shapes finally coalescing into vivid, fantastical visions—starting to unfurl behind his eyelids. Peter feels immense in his mind’s eye. Enormous and omnipotent with tendrils of knowledge slinking out into the vastness of the universe. He sees stars and energy with more detail than he can imagine his own fingertips—he tastes ichor, thick and sour on the back of his tongue.

“What,” Wade says flatly. “Nope, thanks, but no thanks. Not interested. In the slightest. I don’t give a turd what check you attach to it—actually, yes, yes, I can. It’s my business. I’m the head honcho. You know what ‘boss’ is in Spanish? _El_ _jefe_. I’m _el jefe_ and _donde está la biblioteca._ ”

Peter is sagacious and prevailing, standing at the height of three men, draped in war paint. He is ebullient and unyielding. For once, he feels sated and like his own chieftain. Peter feels his own teeth, filed sharp like crooked daggers, grow and grow, along with his tongue, until they’re both too large for his head, protruding menacingly. He feels himself biting down; something drip-drip-dripping onto his face and down his throat. It slides into him, merges with him, and then: the sensation of sprinting without movement.

“I’m sorry, what the fuck did you say?”

Gorged and languid, he looks up to the sky to see a million asteroid fragments burning up in the atmosphere like plentiful shooting stars. He watches with keen interest as one gets closer and closer and closer. Then he looks down to the valley, piled high with carrion. He feels conceit and complacency at the same time he feels contrition and melancholy. He does not relate and yet, he feels empathy.

But his musing is interrupted by a thundering, vehement crash.

The ground trembles once.

“Of course, you do. And I’m Mary, Queen of Scot—”

Then the following minutes are enveloped in an insincere silence.

“You son of a bitch.”

There’s the sudden feeling of being stalked. This world is dark, save for the stars, and yet the impression of a thousand eyes violating them churns in their mind. It is odd—being watched with such intensity. It’s almost turpitude in nature. The feeling is unfavorable. Peter hates being watched. Time seems to pass lethargically with each passing moment accompanied by a sense that he’s been cornered.

And then, the ambush strikes.

“Yeah, I fucking hear you.”

It’s a war of sound.

“You don’t need to fucking say anything else.”

He is an entity of great stealth. He is adept at the art of cloaking, vanishing, and hiding in plain sight. He is an entity forged for mastication and endurance. He can devour. He can slash, smash, and tear. Rip and gut. He can turn these skills unto attackers. He can engage in a fight. But he favors the dark. He’s a shadow: assimilating into the corners of his environment. Lurking and waiting until danger has passed. He prefers to run. He is not trained in battle to the same capacity as the others. If he receives no command, he will retreat.

Alas, there is no crevice to hide in. Not from soundwaves that infiltrate his quarks and stretch them beyond their limit. The enemy is not corporeal.

Pain.

Excruciating pain.

Pain like he’s never felt before and like he’s sure he’ll never feel again.

“How do I know that’s true?”

He’s dying.

They’re dying. It’s an atomic dissection; fission at the nuclear level. The sounds penetrate them and _pull._ Stretch them farther and farther apart until they can no longer be interwoven. And with the pain comes an epiphany of clarity that mortality knows no bounds.

“Peter.”

He’s shaking. Trembling, quaking, assaulted. Hooks clamp onto him, pierce through him, and he’s being hauled across the ground, leaving behind an empty, stilling shell. Hot searing fire and a vacuum, sucking him mercilessly into a prison.

It happens so fast.

“Peter?”

The vault is shut; the chaos is over; the silence ensues.

“Peter?”

There is only the void.

“Peter, wake up.”

And a then a man smiling down at his invalid form with an aura of greed and malice.

_Do you see now?_

“Peter, wake up!”

Peter gasps, quickly animated to life, mouth slack-jawed as he greedily sucks in oxygen. He’d just been suffocating. He was sure of it. Drowning, maybe. He looks around feverishly, shooting into an upright position on the bed. His mind sees broken images of nothing.

“Peter, hey,” Wade’s face suddenly hovers in front of him. “Hey, baby, you okay?”

Wade’s hands move from his shoulders to his arms, taking in Peter’s trembling with a concerned face. “Was that a bad dream, baby boy?”

It takes a minute, but Peter is finally able to tame his breathing. He blinks in rapid succession, shaking his head, before fixing his eyes on Wade’s. He shrugs a little. Bad dream? Had he been dreaming? Had he even been asleep? It feels like he’s been awake this whole time. He’s more tired now than he was before. Whenever before was. How long has Peter been in this bed? It feels like a lifetime, yet he can’t pinpoint when he’d crawled in. Regardless, the evidence of a good time whispers around his senses. He reeks. Wade reeks. This room reeks.

It’s pleasant, actually.

The sheets are too hot. Peter’s too hot. And Wade is in front of him, sweating clinging lovingly to his temple.

“I don’t think so,” Peter replies around a dry throat.

Wade tilts his head, regarding Peter’s face with interest. “You were sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t want to wake you up. You were barely moving. A real sleeping beauty. I was about to check my condo for spinning wheels and fairies—you know, besides us.”

Peter huffs a quiet laugh, raising his knuckles to rub at his crusted eyes. “It’s fine,” he reassures, again blinking away blurriness as he peeks around Wade to the window in the bedroom. A dark sky stares back at him. “What time is it?”

“Almost two in the morning,” Wade says.

It comes to Peter’s attention that Wade is sitting extraordinarily stiffly.

“Wade,” Peter begins, allowing himself a few seconds to consider the tenseness in Wade’s shoulders. “Is everything alright?”

He reaches out, clasping Wade’s large hand in his own. 

Wade smiles, large and bright, and leans in to kiss Peter’s nose. “Fine, baby, but I gotta jet. Got a call from work. You know what they say: duties never sleep and soldiers never weep.”

Peter fights a yawn and nods along with Wade. He thought he heard a phone ringing at some point. “Okay. Sure. Um, did you want me to go?”

“No!”

Peter actually jerks in surprise when the word comes spitting out of Wade’s mouth with impassioned enthusiasm. “Um,” he starts, his own hand falls off of Wade’s. But Wade’s hands tighten on his shoulders and then Wade’s shaking him lightly again.

“Don’t leave,” Wade says firmly and quickly. He looks panicked, just for the barest blink of an eye before his expression melts into a sad little smile. “I don’t get many nights with you, snugglebug. It would be the greatest pleasure in the world if you would do me the honor of staying here. It’s so early and you look sleepy, sweetheart. Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll be back before you know it. Then, pancakes!”

Peter frowns, eyeing Wade with a bit more alertness. Peter does his best to shed off the grogginess.

He has a strange feeling, like a flashing red button, in the back of his head. Like something’s off. Like something’s odd about whatever’s happening right now. But the thing is, nothing about Wade seems out of place. Nothing seems out of character. Every word he says is so saturated with sincerity that Peter finds himself nodding.

“Maybe even a few frappuccinos?” Wade snickers, reaching up to tap Peter’s lips with affection. His hand falls to Peter’s chest and he gently urges him to lay back down. Peter doesn’t resist. He falls back onto the bed. Wade is quick to follow him, tucking himself into Peter’s side and pulling the duvet back around them.

“I’ll stay until you fall back asleep, hm?” he sings and fluffs Peter’s pillow like a ridiculously obsessive mother.

“Okay,” Peter says with just a hint of uncertainty. But Wade is so warm and familiar that it only takes maybe two minutes of him nuzzling Peter’s ear before the exhaustion starts creeping up on Peter again.

Peter is so tired. He feels like he’s running on an empty battery.

“Petey?”

“Hm? Wade?”

“You know I’m not pulling teeth, right?” Wade says. The phrase instantaneously catches Peter’s attention and in an instant, Peter’s breaks away to try to read Wade’s face again.

 _Not pulling teeth._ Wade always says that. That stupid phrase. He always says it when Peter’s _this_ close to blowing his cover like a fool. Peter tries to tamp down on the urge to look at his hands. Check to see if his web shooter bracelets have somehow shot off during their nap. Or if he’s sticking awkwardly to the duvet.

“Yeah,” Peter gulps. “I know.”

“You’ve got mutant crustacean senses, yeah? Saw Weasel’s beer bottle coming without even getting an eyeful of it. Your hearing any good, angel?” Wade asks so casually that Peter can’t help but sit up and look at him, dumbfoundedly.

Wade _never_ asks about Peter’s mutation.

Never.

Not really. Nothing serious. He mentions it jokingly. He probes every now and then in a playful way that Peter is always free to escape from. But he never asks something so direct like he just has now. Why does Wade want to know?

“It’s pretty good,” Peter answers, heart racing a mile a minute. “Why?”

Wade shrugs and pokes at Peter’s elbow. “If you wanted to, could you hear throughout the building? Down the hall? One hall down or three? The whole building? The building across the street?” Wade inquires with an airiness that says he doesn’t really care. Peter lets him rearrange him so that Peter’s laying down once more.

Peter stares at him with a wrinkle in his nose.

Wade looks innocent, sprawled out next to him like he was born to lounge and luxuriate.

“No,” Peter states after a moment of silence. “Maybe a few floors up or down if I really try. But nothing crazy.”

Wade hums and lifts a thumb to rub at Peter’s furrowed brows.

“Why?” Peter asks sharply.

Why this question? Why now?

Wade shrugs again. “I’m just curious, princess. It’s Taco Tuesday and I’m three million percent sure the neighbors on the first floor are having a tequila party. I’m wondering if I should take the back exit or the front door. I don’t feel like walking through a hoard of white dudes pissed off of Dos Equis in my gear. I’ve already had a complaint or two.”

Peter sighs in irritation. “Still not female, Wade.”

Wade offers him a wolfish grin. “Ah, yes, but a princess, nonetheless. I’m sure if I put in a pea in this bed, you’d freak out. Now, come, fair princess, close your eyes. Shall I serenade ye to sleep?”

“For the love of Christ, Wade, if you sing to me, I’ll never sleep in your bed ever again.”

“I’ll recite poetry then.”

Peter turns a little, looking Wade dead in the face. Wade looks like this is just any other night that they’ve stayed up goofing on each other. It’s not though. That question couldn’t have just come out of the blue, could it?

Taking a deep breath, Peter confronts him. “Stop it,” he says. “You’re lying.”

Wade blinks thrice like a robot rebooting.

“You’re lying to me. You’re not just curious. Why did you ask me that?”

The shaking is back. But it’s not trembling induced from some freak dream he can’t remember. It’s from anger. Peter is anxious and irate.

Wade sighs with palpable frustration. He shakes his head and stares back at Peter with a weighted honesty in his eyes. “Peter,” he begins, voice deep and forthright. “I’m not lying.”

Wade’s arm curls around Peter’s head on the pillow, like he’s gently begging Peter not to turn away from him. “I know I said I would let you open up at your own pace, but that doesn’t mean that sometimes I’m not hungry for more.” His fingers brush over the nape of Peter’s neck warmly. “I want to know everything about you. I want to be the person that you hold no secrets from. I’m sorry I asked. I never meant to make you uncomfortable, it’s just that sometimes, it’s difficult.”

“Difficult?” Peter repeats in a whisper. He searches Wade’s eyes again. All he sees is Wade. His Wade. Peter is so damned idiotic for forgetting that Wade has feelings and desires too. Wade is a human too. Just because he agrees to play along with Peter’s games doesn’t mean that he can’t have an opinion on them. It doesn’t mean that Peter’s lies don’t affect him.

Wade’s hand curls around Peter’s ear, fingers falling on his cheek with endearment. “Difficult,” Wade nods. “I want to go at your speed, but there’s a lot going on right now. And sometimes, I think I can’t protect you properly unless I know all of the skeletons in the closet.”

Peter frowns, unconsciously leaning into Wade’s hand.

There is a lot going on. Peter’s being followed. Some crazy lady from the _Life Foundation_ has been stalking Peter and Wade, by association. Taking up residence in Wade’s building; any privacy that Wade’s ever had is pretty much gone between. Any security that Wade felt in his own home has been violated. Of course, the two of them are laying in bed and the only thing Wade can think about is their nebulous rival and what troubles lurk in the near future.

Wade’s mind is running from corner to corner, around in a hamster wheel with no reprieve. Peter can empathize. He often feels the same way. And yet, the lingering guilt that he’s brought this upon Wade chisels at him.

“You don’t need to protect me,” Peter assures him in a soft tone. Wade has already told Peter that he’s exactly where he wants to be. But Peter is going to continue to let him know that there’s always an out if he needs one. If this becomes too overwhelming.

“I don’t have to,” Wade huffs. “Peter, I want to.”

The words are ache in a bittersweet pulse.

Wade leans in as though he can’t resist and kisses Peter squarely on the lips. Everything about the kiss feels like…well, to Peter, it feels like the embodiment of love.

“I want to protect you, Peter,” Wade murmurs against his lips. “Will you let me?”

“Okay,” Peter nods minimally, trying to keep Wade in place. But Wade pulls away anyhow, enough to look into Peter’s eyes again.

“Promise?” he asks.

Peter feels the warmth of his breath and the need behind the question. “I promise,” he replies, eager to show Wade he understands. He understands.

“Thank you,” Wade says and finishes with a kiss to Peter’s forehead. He stays there for a long minute before retreating once more.

“Promise me you’ll stay tonight?” Wade begs.

Peter understands. He understands what Wade isn’t saying: _promise that we can put this behind us._ Promise Wade that he didn’t mess up because he finally expressed his curiosity a bit more forwardly. Promise that Peter sees him for the person he is. Promise that Peter will stop standing so stiffly and realize that Wade is there for him.

“I’ll stay.”

 

-

Wade does recite poetry.

Long and verbose poetry in old English that Peter’s never heard before. He can’t decipher if they’re sonnets from a hundred-year-old text lost to mankind or if Wade’s making them up as he goes along. After the first few lines, Peter surrenders and closes his eyes.

The thing is, he doesn’t sleep.

Not quite.

His eyes feel like they have a set of dumbbells hanging from them. He wants to sleep. So very badly. He’s less hungry, by some miracle of an unknown deity, but the exhaustion weighs on him relentlessly. He closes his eyes, though. He rests them. While some might say he’s pretending to sleep, he tells himself that’s not true. He’s not pretending to sleep; he’s trying to sleep. After such an emotionally taxing moment with Wade, he really need some sort of rest. Even if he has to force himself to do it. Besides, the last thing he wants is for Wade to realize he’s awake and kicking. Wade would probably blame himself for Peter’s restlessness.

When Wade eases out of the bed with an extreme amount of caution—which is adorable and so considerate that Peter has to bite down on his tongue not to giggle—Peter keeps his eyes closed and his breathing deep. Wade actually takes a moment to tuck Peter in. It’s stupidly sweet. Peter tries not to combust into a thousand cartoon hearts.

“Just stay here, Bambi. I’ll be back,” Wade whispers so silently that it sounds like Peter’s own imagination. It sounds more like a prayer than conversation. Wade definitely thinks he’s asleep.

Then he’s gone.

Peter hears him step to the closet, probably to grab a suit, and he’s stepping out of the bedroom, making his way through the living room and into the kitchen. In less than ten minutes, Wade is closing the condo front door and gone.

The condo is empty.

And Peter is awake.

Exhausted, yes, but awake. And if Wade’s poetry recital and the comfort that comes along with his cuddles didn’t put Peter to sleep, then nothing is going to put Peter to sleep. So of course, Peter’s brain takes this as an opportunity to ramble on and on about the woes of his life. It’s hard to turn off. Sometimes it feels like his brain only shuts up when Wade is around to rein him in. And now, he realizes it’s been a whirlwind of two days. Between work and Rags and Sunny and their trip to the trailer park and work again. And sex. And being an idiot once again.

No wonder Peter is so tired.

 _I want to_ , Wade had said. He wants to protect Peter.

Peter slaps his hands to his face.

He’s so gone on Wade that it’s starting to not be cute in any way, shape, or form. Yet, the truth is that Peter is happy. He’s known all along that Wade cares strongly for him. Peter isn’t exactly the paragon of openness. He loves Wade, but he’s not ready to take that phrase for a ride. Wade saying he wants to protect Peter? Well, that feels a lot like love, just like his kiss had been. This isn’t a Disney animation, but all of the scenes seem to by stringing together quite well.

And Peter feels the same.

He wants to protect Wade.

He wants to protect _them._

Which is why Peter needs to take this time to do something useful. Wade and he didn’t fight, per se. But Peter had very cruelly accused him of lying to Peter. Peter had questioned Wade when he didn’t have much of a right to. Peter can correct that wrong. An apology, of sorts, might be possible.

He can’t tell Wade he’s Spider-Man, but he can offer Wade another chip to help him feel more in control of this _Life Foundation_ situation.

With a sudden burst of energy, Peter tosses the duvet back and pushes himself to his feet. He can do this for Wade and for himself. For the children. He should have done this right away, after meeting Sunny, but he’d allowed himself to become distracted.

Peter will seize the opportunity to get some work done while he isn’t distracted by his heart or his nether regions.

He knows who Quickstep is. He thinks he does. It’s the only lead he has, he realizes. It’s the only real, tangible lead any of them have into why the _Life Foundation_ is peacefully having Peter stalked rather than reporting him to the authorities. Peter can get to the bottom of this, he realizes. He’s the only one with the power to—the only one with a clue to follow.

He has to go. For all of them.

He _needs_ to go.

With a violent movement, he falls to his knees where his clothes from yesterday are still in a heap on the floor. He dresses as fast as he can, thankful he’s still wearing his socks, and starts fishing around for his phone. It’s not in his pocket, where it had been when he undressed. Instinctively, he looks at the nightstand. It’s empty and clean, save for a bottle of nearly empty lubrication that seems to wink slyly at Peter.

Blushing despite himself, and frowning as he feels the distinct lack of dried come and lube on him, Peter realizes that Wade must have cleaned him off. Sometime after he fainted like a schoolboy.

Lovely.

That’s not embarrassing at all.

Peter grabs the small bottle, pleased that it’s not sticky, and dutifully opens the first drawer of the nightstand. He deposits it inside, looking over the contents absently. He wants to dig through it. Touch the handcuffs. Tinker with the lighter and keys. Grab a tissue or two. And leaf through the beat-up notebook.

Jesus.

What is he? A paranoid girlfriend?

With reluctance, he recalls the last time he went snooping through Wade’s drawers. That unfortunate journey had ended with Peter betraying Wade’s privacy. And discovering his romantic past. Peter will not shuffle through drawers again.

No way.

Nope.

Which is exactly why his hand shuts the drawer firmly. And promptly reaches to grab a hold of the other drawer handle and opens it faster than his conscience can keep up with. He’s very puzzled to find a drawer of…phones? All kinds. Nokia, Samsung, Apple. Even a few flip phones that make Peter feel like he’s just found an archaeological dig site. Peter shrugs at them. It makes sense that Wade has a lot of phones, actually. As a mercenary, he probably takes a lot of calls that he’d rather not have traced back to him. In fact, Peter’s quite certain that he’s seen Wade with an iPhone before. It’s just that his usual favorite seems to be that horrendous Android.

Phones.

Where is his phone?

Right, back on track.

It takes another few precious seconds and Aunt May’s voice ringing in his head before he plops down and sees his phone lying innocently on the floor, almost under the bed.

He’s almost at the door, mind overflowing with racing thoughts, when he recalls the way Wade had sweetly asked him to stay. To sleep in his bed. To be here when he came home.

Peter pauses.

How long does it take a mercenary to do his job? For Wade? It should not take long at all. And if Peter does this right, it shouldn’t take him long at all either.

Peter can be home before Wade knows he left.

He just needs to be efficient. Nodding to himself, he uses his phone to make a quick call. Dopinder is ready to meet him as soon as he leaves the building. He needs to stop at home to grab his suit. Peter’s already concocting a plan. He’ll have Dopinder wait for him a few blocks from his apartment. He’ll wear his suit under his clothes and bring his backpack. He’ll ditch the backpack when he arrives in Carnegie Hill. It makes perfect sense.

For once in his life, Peter’s absolutely sure he’s got this.

-

The climb up to the fortieth floor is easy.

After changing into his suit and tucking his phone into the pocket in his thigh, Peter abandons his backpack with his civilian clothes in a nearby alleyway. Then he webs himself right to where he needs to be.

Spider-Man climbs with grace, the wind not even slowing him down as he charges toward the sky. Before he knows it, he’s creeping right outside a window that frames a familiar sight: a beautiful home made exquisite by its antique décor.

The window opens like magic. The building is old. The window is one of those dated kinds that Peter can coax to open with just a few minutes of patience and some web fluid. There’s no alarm; the fortieth floor probably thinks it doesn’t need to worry about bandits climbing this far.

They should probably reconsider.

Peter crawls into the room as silently as a mouse. To the [window](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQFCugSRjQQ), to the wall, and finally inside the condominium. It’s toasty inside. The fireplace looks like it was recently lit. The smell of gas still potent in the air. The entire place is neat and tidy—nearly too organized. They must have a maid, Peter thinks, some sort of help. The living room is the size of Peter’s entire apartment.

It’s quiet, but underneath the silence of early morning, Peter can hear two sets of soft snores. Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein, tucked in their bedroom, asleep. Unsuspecting.

Peter hops off the wall and quietly lands on the floor.

He absentmindedly walks around the room, running through every possible scenario in his head. He should approach Mr. Goldstein. Alone. He needs him alone. He doesn’t know if Mrs. Goldstein has any part in this, but Sunny hadn’t mentioned her. He’d only mentioned a man he’d been dealing with.

Maybe he can wake Mr. Goldstein and persuade him to speak to him. But what should he do? Just walk into his bedroom, shake him awake, and start accusing him of stalking Peter?

What a recipe for disaster.

Peter doesn’t want this to become an epic showdown. He just wants concise answers. Peter doesn’t want to use force, but he knows the reality of the situation: Peter is certain Mr. Goldstein will not be all hunky-dory with the idea that Peter’s just broken into his home. He’ll be scared, maybe outraged, confused, for sure. Peter might have to web his mouth shut to get him to listen to Peter’s questions. But how to do that without waking Mrs. Goldstein? That’s the sparkling question.

Peter contemplates it as he approaches the bookcases. As he plays out a reverie in his head, he reaches out to skim his fingers against the spines of the books. With distracted curiosity, he settles on a green book and pulls it out of place, watching the other books collapse in relief. He eyes it, instantly recognizing it without reading the title. He’d recognize J.R.R. Tolkien anywhere—any closet geek would. It’s a worn and folded copy, with a pink bookmark sticking out of one end. Peter opens it to the marked spot, snorting softly as he reads Bilbo’s battle of wits with Sméagol.

“Thirty white horses on a red hill, first they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still,” he murmurs under his breath. The curious riddle is highlighted in pink and underlined in pencil, as though someone’s thought it clever enough to point out. Shaking his head, he closes the book and fondly returns it to its home.

He’d rather not web Mr. Goldstein’s mouth shut, but the most likely future is one where he has to hogtie Mr. Goldstein in webs to get him still enough to listen.

Peter can’t do that.

A gargantuan part of him wishes that was because he is just a good person. But he’s actually more than a bit concerned that word might get around that Spider-Man is breaking and entering. What if Mr. Goldstein calls the cops and they come to find a bunch of web fluid all over the place like it’s been dressed for mischief night? Not good. It’s not like Peter can dissolve the webs once he places them either—which Peter resolves is a huge flaw in his engineering design. The webs dissolve on their own over time, but it takes forever to disappear. At least two hours: more than enough time to snap a picture for safe keeping.

Spider-Man doesn’t need such a reputation.

“Karen,” Peter whispers, thinking ahead. “Activate ‘Interrogation Mode’.” Whatever is about to happen is going to be messy.

What about tape?

Tape seems like a good option. Tape and not webs? Peter can sneak into Mr. Goldstein’s room and with his impressive speed, tape his mouth shut and get him out of the room before he attracts attention.

Brilliant, Peter.

Not exactly a superhero mastermind.

Wade would probably recommend a gun, but Peter’s not planning on any violence on his part. He’s not actually here to hurt anyone. Just maybe mildly restrain in order to get his voice heard.

Right, okay, no. This could totally work. Peter can do this. And if all goes wrong, then he can hurtle out the window.

Where do people keep tape? Maybe in the kitchen, in a junk drawer. Do rich people have junk drawers? All of Wade’s drawers look like junk drawers.

Peter takes a left out of the room, following the same path he’d once seen Mrs. Goldstein walk. Sure enough, it leads him into a kitchen. With as much stealth as he can manage, Peter starts opening drawers left and right. Most are cutlery. In one, he sees a bunch of folded linens and has to pause. Because really? How many tea towels do rich people need? Peter doesn’t even own one.

He strokes his fingers on a paisley, violet colored one that seems to stick out from the rest.

It’s pretty. Peter wants to pick it up and feel its smoothness against his hands.

But it’s not tape. Peter shakes his head again. It feels like his head is full of moths. He shuts the towel drawer and finally finds a junk drawer. No tape. Just candy. Lots of candy, actually. Mouth-watering sweets, some open, some still new. Peter blinks at the Skittles with a rumbling stomach.

Not now.

Interrogation first, snack second.

There’s nothing in the kitchen that could be useful. No twine or tape.

Sighing in frustration, Peter walks toward the stainless-steel refrigerator, admiring its size. It looks like something out of the future. His stomach drops and twists bitterly when he sees a picture tacked to the fridge with a magnet. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t want to sully it. But from where he stands, he can see a happy Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein with a small Ester between them. Ester is smiling and has her blonde hair up in a ponytail, dressed in what appears to be a school uniform. Behind them, Peter recognizes the Vanderbilt Gates that lead into Central Park; a vast field of luscious, verdant grass sprawls behind them in a small hill. Mr. Goldstein doesn’t even resemble himself. In person, he looks like a man stumbling under the weight of the world. In the photograph, he’s grinning and laughing, holding Esther’s shoes in his hand.

It’s too hard to swallow. Peter thinks back to his wallet-sized photograph of Ester and feels his heart twist.

He shuffles quickly and without direction into a hallway and by chance, stumbles into a bathroom. Peter stares at the tile floor, gleaming in the soft glow of a night light plugged into the wall. Peter drops to his knees and opens the vanity cabinet.

Maybe there’s something he could use here.

Inside, the first thing he sees is a depressingly and excessive amount of hair products. Bottles and bottles of strawberry shampoo, coconut conditioner, glitter-y gel, and aluminum cans of hairspray decorated with cherries.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste, smelling the chemicals intensely.

Peter shuts the cabinet, hoping to keep the horrid smell in place. The last thing he needs is to be distracted by artificial cherry smells when he’s supposed to be doing something important.

He stands and begins to look around the room, waiting for something useful to reveal itself.

He is not quite expecting to be watched in return.

Peter nearly screeches as he spies a small figure resting on the closed toilet seat. It takes him a full minute to realize, no, it’s not a small creature staring at him with murderous intent in its eyes. It’s a doll.

A small, red doll.

Peter flaps his arms and presses his hands to his stomach in relief. That’s just like him. Pretending to be tough and something as harmless as a doll scares the crap out of him. Tutting at himself, Peter steps forward to inspect it. And that’s when he suddenly feels…not okay.

From the seat, a tattered Elmo doll composed of warm, soft-looking fabric stares hauntingly at him.

Peter feels like he’s going to vomit.

Head pounding, the back of his neck prickling as though it’s pressed against thorns, and his stomach turning around and around in a roll of nausea.

He’s going to throw up.

Right now.

Because he knows that doll. He knows that doll and now his brain is screaming at him at an agonizing rate: Peter knows this entire house. He walks through it like he’s lived there. He knows what it feels like to spray cherry-scented hairspray onto his ponytail to reign in the flyaway strands. He knows Central Park: he knows how the grass feels on his bare feet. He knows how Skittles taste for breakfast and he knows that the paisley, violet tea towel is everyone’s preferred towel for dish drying. He knows that all of the fantasy books are their favorites, but _The Hobbit_ is the most read.

Because.

Because?

Peter’s seen it. He’s lived it. And he doesn’t understand. He just feels sick, his head pounding.

He needs to leave.

Peter turns and trips once, catching himself inelegantly on his fingertips. He pushes himself up and propels himself forward, running through the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the living room. He’s throwing himself out the window, just as he hears the agitated voice of a man shout.

“Hey, you! This is private property! How did you get in?”

Peter spares a look over his shoulder as he’s halfway out of the window. Mr. Goldstein, dressed in striped pajamas, looks at him in angry shock. The shock morphs into what Peter can only describe as a sheer trepidation. With a trembling hand, Mr. Goldstein reaches for something as he stumbles five, short steps backward. What it is, Peter doesn’t know. A gun, mace, a phone.

Peter doesn’t stick around to find out. The home is drenched in sourness and pain. It’s sick. It feels alive with a thousand beckoning whispers that call out into Peter’s mind—like it wants to grabs him, blanket him, then swallow him whole. It’s toxic and ominous.

He has to leave.

Peter jumps out of the window, lets the ground rush toward him, then shoots a web at the next building next door and swings away.

Where?

He doesn’t know where.

Just away.

-

Peter only makes it two buildings over before he collapses onto a rooftop. His legs feel boneless and he falls to the cement, where he sticks like a pile of shapeless goo. But his body is unimportant in the scheme of _everything_. His mind is ravaged by what he’d believed to be fantasies of Esther, summoned from a guilty, compensating conscience to help Peter deal with his poor decisions. And these fantasies are what? Not fantasies at all.

Not dreams and reveries built from the lingering ache of culpability.

Real. All the things he’d seen and felt and tasted and smelled: real. How could that be possible? It can’t be. It defies all of the laws that govern reality. Peter doesn’t believe in psychics or paranormal garbage. He believes in science. And there’s nothing researched in the scientific literature that cites people having visions of a dead person’s life. Not in peer-reviewed literature.

Yet Peter had seen all of the evidence he’d needed to prove these conjured images were grown from a seed of reality.

The towel, the books, the doll. It had all been there, sitting in front of him. Touchable. Solid. Real.

Peter can still envision each little trinket with clarity. He’s so fixated on it, on trying to piece together these breadcrumbs that churn like a tornado, that his Spidey sense scares him to the core when it flares viciously. One, big, sharp wail. With poor command over his sluggish body, Peter rolls to the side just in time for a bullet to bury its way into the concrete right where his head had previously been resting.

He watches vacantly as small chunks of concrete dust spring forth from the bullet indentation like volcano. A bullet? Where had a bullet just come from? A gun, sure, yes, but from whom? Peter doesn’t even know where he is. He’s somewhere in Carnegie Hill, perhaps, on a terrifyingly tall building that towers over its neighborhood. Who the heck has followed him here?

“I’ve gotta say, that was an impressive dodge. I’d normally be pissed that missed the hole, but it’s a bad luck kinda day. You know, I have real mixed feeling about spiders.”

Peter scrambles up inelegantly like a newborn calf on wobbly legs looking up in abject horror to see Deadpool standing just a few feet away.

“Deadpool?” Peter slurs, tongue like lead in his mouth. He tries hard to divorce himself from the cold, deadening shock he’s in. His mind is still back in the Goldstein’s residence. It can’t handle anything now. Is that why he’s seeing Wade, the one person that brings him comfort?

Oh, God. Now he’s hallucinating. Peter has _hallucinated_ himself an anchor so he doesn’t completely lose his sanity tonight.

That’s it.

Peter’s gone off the deep end.

There’s no coming back from this.

And yet, something is peculiarly _wrong_ about Peter’s hallucination, not that he’s an expert. When Peter normally imagines Wade, he’s all suave with comedic expressions and operatic movements. This Deadpool doesn’t look like Wade at all. He doesn’t even look like any version Deadpool that Peter’s ever encountered.

Deadpool approaches slowly, body completely ravaged with tension. There are no smart quips or jaunty waves. No colorful swear words or sassy posing. This Deadpool walks like a machine. Each footstep he takes is one that speaks of quiet determination. When he speaks, his words are dull and lackluster. Flat and automatic, like he’s speaking because he has to, not because he wants to. Which doesn’t make any sense. Wade is always happy to see Peter. Wade loves talking.

“I’d love to play more, but I’m on a tight schedule. Pretend this is a monologue full of witty banter. I didn’t plan for this, I just couldn’t snipe you properly from below roof level, so now I’m here. Colored me unprepared,” Deadpool waves a gun around tightly, then points it right at Peter’s head.

He pulls the trigger and _bang!_ A bullet goes careening through the air. At Peter. Peter just watches it fly a straight path to his forehead, Spidey sense only flaring warningly when it’s inches away.

And Peter executes a life-saving backbend to evade it.

The bullet shoots off into the distance before it’s path is cut short by concrete. It lodges itself into the sidewall of the roof that coughs out dust upon impact.

 _Again_.

Not a hallucination.

Wait.

What in the ever-loving hell is going on?

“Wade?!” Peter wrestles out in confusion, wrenching himself back up into a standing position. He watches Deadpool curse loudly and agitatedly. But he can’t look at Deadpool’s face. Instead, Peter is unable to tear his eyes away from where a leather-gloved hand is clasped around a smoking gun.

“Ain’t that peachy? Not a mime after all,” Deadpool huffs a dejected, emotionless laugh, shaking his head. “Well, prep to meet your maker,” Wade grumbles restlessly. He looks like he’s working on fumes. His body is held tightly, that tension Peter saw from earlier spreading out from his shoulders to contaminate his entire frame.

“Stay still this time.”

And Wade’s holding a gun. Wade _shot_ a gun at Peter?

“It’ll be over before you know it. Painless, quick. Promise.”

_Promise me._

“Wade, what—” Peter can’t even finish the sentence.

Wade shot a gun at Peter?

“Look, it’s nothing personal. I’m just caught between a rock and a hard place, eh.” All of a sudden, Deadpool cries out with a discontented scream that sounds like it’s being contorted out from behind clenched teeth. “Fucking Christ! Shut the fuck up!” he bellows, starting to walk forward again in purposeful steps. “Do me a favor and die fucking quietly. Go out like a Viking, make this just a goddamn bit easy?” And Deadpool raises the gun.

That’s the same gun he’d had in the trailer park.

Wade’s going to shoot a gun at Peter?

Again?

Peter’s mind isn’t even able to process what could be going on.

“Wade, what is going on—”

“I said, shut up!” Deadpool gnarls again and this time, he sends a bullet right at Peter’s feet. Peter, whose limbs feel like flesh-encased goop, staggers backward and watches the third bullet embed itself into the ground of the roof. Peter feels confusion roar through him like thunder, panic abruptly striking him like lightning.

Deadpool continues forward, muttering in a nearly crazed voice under his breath. “Shut up, shut up! I already don’t want to do this, just don’t fucking talk because I need to do this or I don’t know what the fuck is going to happen.”

Then Deadpool looks from Peter to the sky behind him. Peter, feeling like he’s been placed in an alternate universe, whirls around expecting to see another Wade standing behind him. Or an alien that’s mind controlling Wade into trying to hurt Peter. Something, anything. But the only thing behind him is the moon which is slowly sinking in the passing night sky.

“What fucking time is it?”

Peter snaps his head forward to see Deadpool frantically checking his watch. He curses again and then the gun is back in the air.

“Wade?”

“Sorry,” Deadpool says and then, another bullet whizzes out of the barrel and Peter is too busy concentrating on the way Deadpool seems to radiate resentment. He looks bitter. Almost apologetic, resigned. Cornered.

When his Spidey sense shrieks this time, Peter finds himself side-stepping almost too late and his left arm howls in pain. Peter gasps, doubles over, and whines high in his throat. His right-hand slaps to his left arm, just below his shoulder and the pain stings at him like a hive of sadistic bees. His nostrils flare under his mask at the scent of blood.

“You’re the only mark that’s given me shit on a day I really don’t need it,” Deadpool lets out a deep groan and throws the gun to the side mindlessly. They both ignore it as it scatters off into the distance, scraping metallically as it skids. Deadpool lifts and arm and then there’s the sound of ringing steel; he pulls a katana out of a sheath.

And Peter _stares_ as he seems to curse the gods and encroach on Peter.

Peter stares.

And realizes with an utterly winded gasp of certainty that Wade is going to kill him. Wade is going to kill him.

And Wade doesn’t even know it’s him.

“Wade, wait!” Peter pleads, throwing his arms up, hands coming out in front of him in a desperate attempt to get Wade to stop.

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk.” Deadpool performs a very complicated move with the katana that has Peter yelping and ducking, fumbling backwards again, ignoring the ache in his shoulder.

“Wait, wait a minute, stop—”

Deadpool takes another jab at him that Peter misses by a hair’s length.

“Wade, just stop, it’s me!” Peter screeches, dodging the katana again, adrenaline just starting to build in a delayed reaction.

Peter shakes. Why isn’t Wade stopping? Why isn’t Wade listening?

Oh, Parker. “You idiot,” Peter hisses at himself, twisting out of the way of the katana and dancing backward again. “Karen!” he commands around a breathless inhale. Peter’s entire left side is starting to become numb. It’s better than the pain, but it’s getting hard to use. He’s moving awkwardly. Evading that katana is taking all of his energy and all he can do is pitifully keep trying to put some distance between them and himself.

“Karen, deactivate Interrogation Mode!”

It takes a lifetime to get the words out, because Peter cannot breathe. He can’t breathe.

_Interrogation mode, deactivated._

Deadpool is moving so fast and his swordsmanship is extraordinarily professional. Each swipe he aims at Peter is one of deadly precision and like a complete whackjob, the only thing Peter can think of is that maybe Wade really was taking it easy with Peter in Ruf’s basement gym. Peter would laugh, if he wasn’t just backed up into a corner—because Deadpool’s suddenly just two feet in front of him and Peter sees the katana swing back with purpose, readying itself to behead Peter.

Peter doesn’t even think.

There are no words for the amount of regret, guilt, and hysteria he feels. He should have told Wade, he should have told Wade, he should have told Wade. What can Peter say? There’s nothing Peter can say in the half a second it’s going to take for Wade to finish him off. Peter is going to die and Wade doesn’t know. Wade doesn’t know and he’s going to go home and find his bed empty, even though Peter promised he’d stay. He’ll think Peter left and abandoned him. He’ll be hurt. And it doesn’t even matter because time is running out. There isn’t enough time for an explanation. Peter’s tongue is tied and all he can do is stare because his brain can’t process any more information. _There is no time._ The metal of the katana gleams mockingly in the moonlight and finally—finally, from a turmoil of fevered emotion, Peter’s body sets itself into survival mode. And it does what it always does when Peter is anxious, terrorized, and in need of something to shelter him from every rotten and noxious reality Peter is forced into facing. He reaches for Wade, his anchor, and opens his bumbling mouth.

Peter’s mouth does all the talking.

And it isn’t pretty.

“ _Daddy!_ ” Peter screams wildly and flails his arms up into the air.

The world freezes.

The world is frozen, no one moves.

Peter can’t hear anything. New York City, often boisterous and lively, sits as a silent, horrified witness to the culmination of what feels like a cosmic joke. Spider-Man and Deadpool lock eyes through their masks, each suspended in a state of unanimated alarm.

Deadpool looks at Spider-Man.

Spider-Man looks at Deadpool.

And then, the katana drops, clattering to the floor with a momentous crash.

“Peter?” Wade croaks, white eyes round and unblinking.

-

It’s Wade that moves first.

If it’s possible, the tension he carries seems to have amped up by one hundred percent.

Peter can’t move.

He’s against the wall, eyes trained on Wade’s mask, left side slumped and right side trembling.

Wade reaches out slowly, as though he’s reaching a hand into a blazing fire pit. His hand reaches out to Peter’s neck and hesitates. His fingers hover over Peter’s chin, motionless. He seems to wait an eternity there before he visibly shakes himself. Then Wade’s hand is tangling in Peter’s mask. And Spider-Man’s mask is ripped off.

And Deadpool sees his face.

The cold air, cooler than it was before, bites at Peter’s naked face and through his matted hair. What does he look like? He’s not sure. He was just breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating a moment ago, but now Peter feels strangely placid. He stares at Wade and Peter feels serenity, as though he’s gazing into the soothing surface of a deep, blue lake. Is he flushed and red, body still recovering from what’s just happened? Is he pale and ghostly, standing like an apparition under the stars?

The only thing he knows is that he looks like who he’s been this entire time: Peter Benjamin Parker.

And Wade sees him.

He sees Peter.

There’s a drawn out moment that hangs like a pendulum between them where they both are helpless to react. Then Wade seems to fold in on himself. With a quick motion, he pulls at his suit until he’s holding two masks in his hand out halfway between their beating hearts. And Peter reads it all over Wade’s face.

Wade had no idea Spider-Man was Peter Parker.

The sheer magnitude of violent disbelief on his handsome features tells Peter all he needs to hear. Peter knows Wade and he’s never seen _this_ amalgam of emotions etched onto his face before. Wade looks unwell. Peter can see the beginnings of his disbelief begin to denature into acrimonious self-disgust. Wade did not know who Spider-Man was and now that he does, the implications of his actions are starting to catch up with him.

Peter has so many things to say. He has so many things he needs to explain. He’s not stupid, he’s not. He knows—he knew as soon as this started in the back of his head—that this was a set up. This was the “work” Wade had mentioned he needed to attend to. Wade was just taking a job. He left Peter at home, tucked warm in their bed, planning to come home to cook him pancakes. This is a man who was distraught he had to leave Peter alone and crawled back into bed with him, savoring their moments together, reciting shit poetry to Peter just so he could get back to sleep.

This is the man who wants no secrets between them. Who desires to know and protect Peter above everything else.

Wade did not know. Someone else gave him a job and Wade’s a mercenary. His work is contracted. He did what he always does whether or not Peter wants to say it loud and proud into the open: he left their home with the intent to complete his job.

And now Wade looks like he’s going to impale himself on his own katana—the one that had been intended for Peter.

And none of it is Wade’s fault.

For the second time in his life, Peter has successfully kept a secret from someone he loves. It’s hasn’t been easy this time around, but Peter had been determined to keep this from Wade for a list of inconsequential fears that all grow from the same root of cowardice.

Peter’s been lying this entire time to make his own life easier and look where it’s gotten him. Look where it’s gotten the man he’s in love with.

For the first time since their relationship began, Peter wishes Wade had asked more questions.

Peter had always thought he would celebrate the day he became adept at lying. But it turns out, he was good at it all along.

He doesn’t feel celebratory, he feels repulsive.

Peter feels polluted.

And on that note, Peter feels his eyes roll back into his own head.

-

The next thing he knows, Peter is waking up to Wade’s huge body hovering over him. The world is fuzzy for a moment, slowly working its way to high definition clarity, and his ears are buzzing.

Wade is talking.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he coughs shakily in a hushed tone. “Oh, my God. Shi—Peter? Peter? Wake up.”

Peter blinks behind heavy eyelids.

“Peter, wake up, right now,” Wade says, abruptly loud, and Peter pops up into a sitting position.

Why had he passed out?

“You—” Peter blinks again, looking up at a kneeling Wade. Wade looks on edge, but other than that, his normally expressive face appears to be held tightly in a flat affect. When Peter blinks at him again, he sees it totally crumble. “Fuck, I—” Wade’s face just barely keeps from caving in on itself; his scars twisted and misshapen. Peter’s never seen anyone wear so much regret and frustration at once. “Shit.”

It dawns on Peter that Wade is stumbling over his words. Stuttering with cut off sentences. The short, harsh syllables are the opposite of his usual genial verbiage.

Wade gulps and swallows, eyes closed like he’s gathering himself. When he opens his eyes, he can’t seem to meet Peter’s.

“Peter, you need to stay awake. We need to go,” Wade says, biting his lip hard enough that Peter sees his teeth pull away red. “Are you in any pain?”

“No,” Peter replies softly. His throat is dry and hoarse.

Wade suddenly looks angry. “You don’t have to lie for me, Peter,” he starts roughly, then bites his lip again. “A bullet clipped your left arm. The bleeding’s stopped. It’s not,” Wade takes a minute, seemingly having trouble speaking. His mouth works open and closed a few times. “Life-threatening. Can you move your arm?”

It’s just like that that Peter remembers why they’re here again. The whole Wade almost killing him by accident thing, the identity reveal thing, and then the Peter fainting thing. Any blissful ignorance that came along with fainting is now gone. Peter’s emotional train wreck? Right back on track.

Peter really doesn’t feel any pain. None at all, none of the numbness. He reaches out to Wade with his left arm, wanting to touch him. After all this, he wants nothing more because Wade looks like he’s stepped into a horror movie that he’ll never escape from.

He can’t let Wade stew. This is too important.

Wade flinches before Peter’s hand can make contact though.

“Wade,” Peter starts, voice tight with sadness. “I’m fine. Nothing hurts. Wade, this is okay, I think I know what happened.”

“It was a bullet, it hurts getting shot. It has to hurt,” Wade cuts him off, still evading Peter’s eyes. “We need to leave, Peter, now. Do you think you can walk?”

Peter frowns as Wade begins to look around them in a paranoid manner.

There’s no one as far as Peter can see. His Spidey sense doesn’t alarm him of anyone nearby. It’s just the two of them on this roof.

“Wade, are you alright?”

“We need to leave, get out of the open,” Wade turns and nods jerkily at Peter. “Can you walk or do you need help? There’s a fire escape on the south side of the roof.”

Peter has no idea what’s going on, but Wade looks serious. And almost scared. And that is scary to Peter. So, Peter stands up. “I’m fine, okay, let’s leave then.”

Wade nods again, still jerky and tense. He gestures in front of him and it takes another few seconds for Peter to realize that Wade wants him to walk in front of him. He takes a few steps and sure enough, a fire escape awaits them. Peter makes his way down them with ease, eyes more fixed on Wade than the ladder. They’re nearly at the bottom when Peter finally breaks the silence.

“Your katana,” Peter says—because Wade’s katana is missing. It’s probably still on the roof where it fell. Wade adores his katanas. Peter’s starting to work himself into a silent frenzy trying to figure out how to approach this situation. They need to speak. Peter needs to speak to Wade. Reassure him, something, but Wade’s body language seems to be closed to conversation.

Peter could swing up really quickly and get Wade’s katana.

Wade’s shoulders hunch up.

Peter wants this to be the moment when Wade cracks a joke. Pokes Peter’s nose. Kisses his forehead. Touches his hair and his cheeks and his stupid, ugly freckles. Anything to let Peter know that there’s hope.

That they can fix this.

“Leave it,” Wade says. And then, unbelievably, there’s a taxi waiting for them at the corner of the block. With urgent motions, Wade ushers Peter into the car, opening the door for him. 

“Do you own a first aid kit?” Wade says, tone tamed and even. Like apropos of nothing. Except maybe not nothing as Wade’s been careful to avoid Peter’s eyes this entire time, but he’s been stealing furtive glances at Peter’s wounded arm.

Of course, Peter owns an emergency kit. He’s a mutant, but not one like Deadpool. He doesn’t regenerate that fast.

“Yes,” he replies.

Wade nods, knocks on the window, and says something quickly to Dopinder before climbing into the backseat with Peter. The car sets off, taking a sudden turn and speeding away.

It’s not right.

Wade won’t look at Peter, other than at his bullet-clipped arm.

Peter can’t take it. He wants to throw himself at Wade, but Wade is tucked into the door. He looks enormous in the small cab space, like a giant trying to conceal itself into a clown car. Everything about him screams wounded, like a wolf with its tail tucked between its legs.

“Wade,” Peter says for the umpteenth time this night. Morning. Whatever.

Wade shakes his head.

“Wade,” Peter repeats, the name breaking on his tongue. And horrifyingly, tears start to well up in Peter’s eyes and he can’t hide them. He can’t hide the way he sniffles like a two-year-old with a scraped knee. “I’m s-sorry.”

Wade seems to shrink even further into himself. But, alas, a soft, begging whisper escapes him. “Baby boy, don’t.”

Unfurling minutely, Wade drops his head into his hands. He breathes harshly, chest heaving, before he pulls them back and finally looks at Peter. “Don’t you say sorry to me,” he says in a dead voice.

“I’m sorry!” Peter says, louder, and wetter, than before. He’s very close to sobbing. He presses at his eyes with his own fingers, struggling to blink the tears away. To will away the fit he’s about to have. It’s almost a blessing when he hears Wade’s stupid phone—whatever phone it is he has—start to vibrate. He concentrates on that. He listens to it go through at least four calls, battling his emotions back into the cup he holds them in.

He pulls his fingers back to find Wade looking at him tiredly. There’s something that Peter just can’t place about how Wade must be feeling right now.

“We need to talk,” Peter pleads, speaking loudly over the sound of another incoming call. “Please, let me explain.”

“Baby—” Peter’s heart lights up in hope. He must be a real lamentable sight because Wade actually looks like he’s about to follow Peter’s example and start tearing up. He looks tortured and Peter hates it.

The phone vibrates again and Wade nods, clearing his throat. “We _will_ talk, but not now. Not right now.”

Wade’s lips twist in a frown and he quickly reaches into one of his pouches. Peter sees him look at a Nokia, sigh in agitation, then roll his eyes quickly and turn the phone off.

The cab stops and Wade looks up. Peter watches him with desperate levels of worry, anticipation, and confusion. Wade looks out of the window, then gets out of the car, holding a finger at Peter. He walks around a bit, slow and steady. He’s looking for someone, Peter thinks. Or for something.

Peter recalls Wade’s urgency and paranoia on the rooftop.

Wade must be worried about something, but what?

After a minute filled with apprehension and suspense, Wade tosses Peter’s mask back at him. It lands limply on the seat right before Peter’s lap. Peter doesn’t even have the spirit to conjure all of the metaphors and similes the deflated Spider-Man mask fallen between them represents. He dutifully puts it on and follows Wade.

Peter slides out of the cab, feeling another wave of tears starting to emerge when Wade gently touches the back of Peter’s neck and tells him to walk, keep his head down.

Peter follows every direction without complaint.

Anything, he thinks. He would do anything for this to be over already, so they can go back to how they were just a few hours ago. Happy.

Wade’s still looking around them. The silence of the early morning is one of stillness. Naturally, that’s when Peter’s phone rings, loudly on high volume. Because Peter is definitely the idiot that forgot to put his phone on silent mode before he went to interrogate someone. Who can blame him? Who really calls anyone nowadays, anyway? He has his text tone on silent now and that’s really as far ahead as he thought in terms of that. Peter is racking up those points today.

Wade hisses and Peter fumbles, muttering profuse apologies as he reaches into his pocket.

“It’s fine, let’s get inside,” Wade says gruffly and then, he’s pushing Peter through a set of doors as Peter quickly goes to silence the call. More than anything, Peter falls through the doors like the graceful nymph he is because on his phone a call from Mr. Stark goes to voicemail and with it, a string of texts pop onto the screen.

_Peter, I really need you to call me.  
Something that you’d be interested in. Need to talk._

_Peter, call me. I think you should know this._

_Call me, okay?_

_Peter should really be a phone call._  
_We can facetime. You love facetime_  
_Facetime me ok?_

 _Peter, I know I said it wasn’t urgent._  
_I take it back._  
_Time sensitive now. Rather not say by text._

 _Why aren’t you answering your phone, kid?_  
_You ok? Karen says you’re active._  
_Why are your vitals up?_

 _Peter answer your phone._  
_Are you ok?_

 _Peter the kid you saved from the Tower_  
_He woke up._  
_He’s asking for you. Call me._

Staring at the phone with a blanching face, Peter re-reads the last two text messages with shakiness. A surge of elation brews in his gut and despite himself, despite everything, Peter looks up to Wade immediately to share the good news. The child they’d saved—the only one they’d saved—is alive. He’s going to make it. He’s fine. He’s awake and he remembers Peter. Which means he remembers Deadpool. And this is what they need right now: something positive and pure to wash away the stains of the night.

“Wade,” Peter says with fragile happiness. He can’t help but look back to his phone again. He re-reads the messages again, assuring himself they’re real.

“We need to keep moving,” Wade says and clasps Peter around the elbow of his right arm.

Eyes going from phone to Wade’s hand, Peter knows that there is a God. There is something out there, besides crazy aliens with magical hammers and fantasies of tyranny. There is something out there rooting for Peter. Because as they move along, Peter is blind to anything but Wade’s gorgeous hand at home where it’s supposed to be: on Peter’s body. Wade’s hand fits into the crook of his elbow like it was artificially designed to be there. All of their curves and edges align like Wade’s his missing puzzle piece. Wade’s touching him. Just a few moments ago, Wade had seemed like he would never touch Peter again. But he has, and it is the only thing Peter has eyes for, even as they hop in and out of an elevator, down a hall, and Wade produces a key which he one-handedly used to open a door.

Peter stares at Wade’s hand.

“The kid with the curly, black hair. He’s awake, he’s okay, Wade,” Peter tells Wade’s hand in awestruck amazement. “He’s asking for me. He remembers us!”

There are far too many emotions for him to keep up with tonight. Far too many emotions for any average human being to process. No one can be acting normally, in their right mind, with all of their marbles after what Peter’s just gone through. It’s been a night of many twists and turns. Shock after shock after shock. An emotional rollercoaster. Peter’s going with that. He’s going with that and he’s going to say that’s the only reason why he doesn’t notice a goddamned thing until he’s sat down in a familiar, squeaky, duct-taped, brown seat.

Peter looks up at Wade, mouth open and posed for inquiry, but he can’t really get much out save for a wisp of air.

“Is the first aid kit in the bathroom?” Wade asks firmly, commanding Peter’s attention. Peter nods. Not just because it is, but because he’s too shell-shocked to do anything else. He continues nodding, watching as Wade walks off in a disturbingly accurate beeline to the restroom.

It’s apt, he decides, to be sat in his Pleather Crisis Couch™ because Peter has the distinct feeling that whatever’s going on?

Peter absolutely does _not_ got this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**End Part 3.**

 

 

 

 

 

[Pineau_noir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pineau_noir) is still aboard this crazy train. This is the longest relationship I've ever had. Buy [Pineau_noir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pineau_noir) a beer.

 

 

Come say "hi" to me on my [Tumblr](https://lazystrawberrymilkshakes.tumblr.com/). :)

 

 

 _Art:_ @freshflightfeathers made the cutest [comic](https://freshflightfeathers.tumblr.com/post/182596772870/k-so-um-basically-this-took-way-too-long-but-i) of Peter and Peggy's most awkward interaction. Poor Peggy. All the good ones are taken and gay, sister.  And also another [comic](https://freshflightfeathers.tumblr.com/post/183415699890/this-part-really-stuck-out-to-me-idk-something) of Peter's thought process in one of the final scenes post identity reveal. I love these so much, thank you for doing fanart <3\. I cried with happiness when you first told me you made strip about my story.


	5. Note

Hi all! Sorry this isn’t an update, it’s just a quick note to let you all know what’s going on. A few people asked if I’ve abandoned this series and the answer is “hell no”. Lol! I have just had a bit of a set back as my laptop broke a few months ago and I’m in the process of trying to save up enough money to get it fixed. As it is, I’m computer-less at the moment. I still aim to deliver the next part of the series this summer, but it might be a bit later than intended. Sorry about that!

**Author's Note:**

> It has been my sincerest pleasure to be on the receiving end of all your kudos, comments, and bookmark-ings. I am doing my best to reply to your comments. Also, a high five to those who reached out to me on Tumblr and Discord. XD It means a lot to me that you check in. I'm a bit (read: very) shy, but this fandom is lovely and I enjoy hearing from you.
> 
> Thank you for reading. I'll see you in the next part!


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